Something great is about to happen to me: I'm about to love somebody very much.

One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls.

One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.

Man, wow, there's so many things to do, so many things to write! How to even begin to get it all down and without modified restraints and all hung-up on like literary inhibitions and grammatical fears.

That's the story of my life rich or poor and mostly poor and truly poor.

And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?

I was a man of the earth, precisely as I had dreamed I would be.