You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.

The writer, an old man with a white moustache, had some difficulty getting into bed.

I think you know that when an American stays away from New York too long something happens to him. Perhaps he becomes a little provincial, a little dead and afraid.

The machines men are so intent on making have carried them very far from the old sweet things.

On the trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the apple has been gathered all its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.

There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.