Sunday Afternoons Are The Longest Afternoons Of

The Dimensions Of A Work Of Art Are Seldom Realized By The Author Until The Work Is Accomplished. It Is Like A Flowering Dream. Ideas Grow, Budding Silently, And There Are A Thousand Illuminations Coming Day By Day As The Work Progresses. A Seed Grows In Writing As In Nature. The Seed Of The Idea Is Developed By Both Labor And The Unconscious, And The Struggle That Goes On Between Them.

There Is No Stillness Like The Quiet Of The First Cold Nights In The Fall.

There Are The Lover And The Beloved, But These Two Come From Different Countries.

There Are Those Who Know And Those Who Don't Know. And For Every Ten Thousand Who Don't Know There's Only One Who Knows. That's The Miracle Of All Time--the Fact That These Millions Know So Much But Don't Know This.

The Mind Is Like A Richly Woven Tapestry In Which The Colors Are Distilled From The Experiences Of The Senses, And The Design Drawn From The Convolutions Of The Intellect.