I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.