Wait And Wait. Most People's Lives Are

All Of The People Of My Time Were Bound With Chains. They Had Forgotten The Long Fields And The Standing Corn. They Had Forgotten The West Winds.

If Our Family Was Poor, Of What Did Our Poverty Consist? If Our Clothes Were Torn The Torn Places Only Let In The Sun And Wind. In The Winter We Had No Overcoats, But That Only Meant We Ran Rather Than Loitered.

There Is A Note That Comes Into The Human Voice By Which You May Know Real Weariness. It Comes When One Has Been Trying With All His Heart And Soul To Think His Way Along Some Difficult Road Of Thought. Of A Sudden He Finds Himself Unable To Go On. Something Within Him Stops. A Tiny Explosion Takes Place. He Bursts Into Words And Talks, Perhaps Foolishly. Little Side Currents Of His Nature He Didn't Know Were There Run Out And Get Themselves Expressed. It Is At Such Times That A Man Boasts, Uses Big Words, Makes A Fool Of Himself In General.

You Can Make It All Right If You Will Only Be Satisfied To Remain Small," I Told Myself. I Had To Keep Saying It Over And Over To Myself. "be Little. Don't Try To Be Big. Work Under The Guns. Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Life.

I Think The Whole Glory Of Writing Lies In The Fact That It Forces Us Out Of Ourselves And Into The Lives Of Others.