No one knows my ability the way I do. I am pushing against it all the time.

Hate cannot live alone. It must have love as a trigger, a goad, or a stimulant.

Father and son are natural enemies and each is happier and more secure in keeping it that way.

A large drop of sun lingered on the horizon and then dripped over and was gone, and the sky was brilliant over the spot where it had gone, and a torn cloud, like a bloody rag, hung over the spot of its going. And dusk crept over the sky from the eastern horizon, and darkness crept over the land from the east.

One man was so mad at me that he ended his letter, "Beware. You will never get out of this world alive."

The warfare between the unaroused male and female is constant and ferocious. Each blames the other for his loss of soul.

A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then-the glory-so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished.