You Can Make A Killing

The Life Of Reality Is Confused, Disorderly, Almost Always Without Apparent Purpose, Whereas In The Artist's Imaginative Life There Is Purpose. There Is Determination To Give The Tale, The Song, The Painting, Form -- To Make It True And Real To The Theme, Not To Life.

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.

I Feel That I Am Writing Out Of A Full Life. I Am A Rich Man, Rich In Men Known, In Adventures Had. I Am Rich With Living.

Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art.

People Keep On Getting Married. Evidently Hope Is Eternal In The Human Breast.