Within its gates I heard the soundOf winds in cypress caverns caughtOf huddling tress that moaned, and soughtTo whisper what their roots had found.(__ Dream of Fear_)

We are all the walking wounded in a world that is a war zone. Everything we love will be taken from us, everything, last of all life itself. Yet everywhere I look, I find great beauty in this battlefield, and grace and the promise of joy.

Where are you going this hot day, Mis_ DeJong?__elina sat up very straight. __o Bagdad, Mrs. Pool.___o____here__ that? What for?___o sell my jewels, Mrs. Pool. And to see Aladdin, and Harun-al-Rashid and Ali Baba. And the Forty Thieves.__rs. Pool had left her rocker and had come down the steps. The wagon creaked on past her gate. She took a step or two down the path, and called after them. __ never heard of it. Bag____ow do you get there?__ver her shoulder Selina called out from the wagon seat. __ou just go until you come to a closed door. And you say __pen Sesame!_ and there you are.__ewilderment shadowed Mrs. Pool__ placid face. As the wagon lurched on down the road it was Selina who was smiling and Mrs. Pool who was serious.The boy, round eyed, was looking up at his mother. __hat__ out of Arabian Nights, what you said. Why did you say that?_ Suddenly excitement tinged his voice. __hat__ out of the book. Isn__ it? Isn__ it! We__e not really ____he was a little contrite, but not very. __ell, not really, perhaps. But __ost any place is Bagdad if you don__ know what will happen in it. And this is an adventure, isn__ it, that we__e going on? People in disguise in the Haymarket. Caliphs, and princes, and slaves, and thieves, and good fairies, and witches.___n the Haymarket! That Pop went to all the time! That is just dumb talk.

[She had] a gay adventuresome spirit that was never to die, though it led her into curious places and she often found, at the end, only a trackless waste from which she had to retrace her steps painfully. But always, to her, red and green cabbages were to be jade and burgundy, chrysoprase and porphyry. Life has no weapons against a woman like that.

The secret to so many artists living so long is that every painting is a new adventure. So, you see, they're always looking ahead to something new and exciting. The secret is not to look back.

A writer's working hours are his waking hours. He is working as long as he is conscious and frequently when he isn't.