Growth Is Exciting; Growth Is

It Is Dreadful How I Miss You, And Everything That Everybody Says Seems Flat And Stupid.

Forget Not Bees In Winter, Though They Sleep.

Is It Better To Be Extremely Ambitious, Or Rather Modest? Probably The Latter Is Safer; But I Hate Safety, And Would Rather Fail Gloriously Than Dingily Succeed.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment? For The Moment Passes, It Is Forgotten; The Mood Is Gone; Life Itself Is Gone. That Is Where The Writer Scores Over His Fellows: He Catches The Changes Of His Mind On The Hop.

Days I Enjoy Are Days When Nothing Happens, When I Have No Engagements Written On My Block, When No One Comes To Disturb My Inward Peace, When No One Comes To Take Me Away From Myself And Turn Me Into A Patchwork, A Jig-saw Puzzle, A Broken Mirror That Once Gave A Whole Reflection, Being So Contrived That It Takes Too Long A Time To Get Myself Back To Myself When They Have Gone.