Life Began For Me, When

Every Individual Taste, Every Natural Appetite, Was Bridled By Caution. The People Asleep In Those Houses, I Thought, Tried To Live Like The Mice In Their Own Kitchens; To Make No Noise, To Leave No Trace, To Slip Over The Surface Of Things In The Dark.

Freedom So Often Means That One Isn't Needed Anywhere.

That Is Happiness; To Be Dissolved Into Something Complete And Great.

Whatever Is Felt Upon The Page Without Being Specifically Named There — That, One Might Say, Is Created.

Now That Stevenson Is Dead I Can Think Of But One English- Speaking Author Who Is Really Keeping His Self-respect And Sticking Forperfection. Of Course I Refer To That Mighty Master Of Language And Keen Student Of Human Actions And Motives, Henry James.