It was my dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one great red line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.

I was having a wonderful time and the whole world opened up before me because I had no dreams.

Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again. Born writers of the future are amazed already at what they're seeing now, what we'll all see in time for the first time, and then see imitated many times by made writers.

Why did I allow myself to be bored ever in the past and to compensate for it got high or drunk or rages or all the tricks people have because they want anything but serene understanding of just what there is, which is after all so much.

I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.

And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.

Swinging on delicate hinges the autumn leaf almost off the stem.