The Truth Is Artistically Fallacious.

It Is Not Death That Kills Us, But Life. We Are Done To Death By Life.

We Cannot Live Without The Earth Or Apart From It, And Something Is Shrivelled In A Man's Heart When He Turns Away From It And Concerns Himself Only With The Affairs Of Men

Readers Themselves, I Think, Contribute To A Book. They Add Their Own Imaginations, And It Is As Though The Writer Only Gave Them Something To Work On, And They Did The Rest.

For Myself, The Creek Satisfies A Thing That Had Gone Hungry And Unfed Since Childhood Days. I Am Often Lonely. Who Is Not? But I Should Be Lonelier In The Heart Of A City.

It Is Not That Death Comes, But That Life Leaves.