The woman in the deck chair next to mine stroked a strand of red hair from her forehead with a freckled hand. “Oh, my head!” “Have my smelling bottle.” She took three long sniffs and then pointed the bottle across the deck. “Awful woman!” indicating a loud, lounging woman…
Immediately upon my return from the West Coast Mission, I tasted two experiences for the first time—love, and poetry. Poetry was pure joy, love more than half pain. I gave my love where it was not wanted; almost simultaneously an immense love was offered to me which I could…
The type of work which I brought home from San Francisco was humdrum and unemotional—objects honestly portrayed, nothing more. As yet I had not considered what was underneath surfaces, nor had I considered the inside of myself. I was like a child printing alphabet letters. I had not begun…
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