Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

Who so loves believes the impossible.

Love that endures, from life that disappears!