I Am Grateful For All

A Narrow Pond Would Form In The Orchard, Water Clear As Air Covering Grass And Black Leaves And Fallen Branches, All Around It Black Leaves And Drenched Grass And Fallen Branches, And On It, Slight As An Image In An Eye, Sky, Clouds, Trees, Our Hovering Faces And Our Cold Hands.

There Is So Little To Remember Of Anyone - An Anecdote, A Conversation At A Table. But Every Memory Is Turned Over And Over Again, Every Word, However Chance, Written In The Heart In The Hope That Memory Will Fulfill Itself, And Become Flesh, And That The Wanderers Will Find A Way Home, And The Perished, Whose Lack We Always Feel, Will Step Through The Door Finally And Stroke Our Hair With Dreaming Habitual Fondness Not Having Meant To Keep Us Waiting Long.

That's One Good Thing About The Way Life Is, That No One Can Know You If You Don't Let Them.

Characters More Or Less Present Themselves To Me. I Don't Know Their Origins. I Think If I Did, If I Seemed To Myself To Fabricate Them, I Could Not Induce Suspension Of Disbelief In Myself In The Way Writing Fiction Requires.

Boughton Says He Has More Ideas About Heaven Every Day. He Said, "mainly I Just Think About The Splendors Of The World And Multiply By Two. I'd Multiply By Ten Or Twelve If I Had The Energy.