I don't even remember who wrote it but it was one of those 15th or 16th century poets.

Though I had a great dread of the island and felt I would never leave it alive, I eagerly wrote down everything she told me about its women.

Time's editor, Thomas Griffith, in his book, The Waist-High Culture, wrote: `` most of what was different about it ( the Deep South ) I found myself unsympathetic to.

Later Helion wrote of this phase: `` For years I built for myself a subtle instrument of relationships -- colors and forms without a name.

She wrote in her journal, `` I have not heard the least profane language since I have been on board the vessel.

Consequently, on October 31, 1896, Mrs. King wrote to Thompson, quite against her daughter's wishes, asking him not to `` recommence a correspondence which I believe has been dropped for some weeks ''.

O my genius, young and ripening, you would swear, -- when I wrote them ; ;

In `` My Song's Young Virgin Date '', for example, Thompson wrote: `` Yea, she that had my song's young virgin date Not now, alas, that noble singular she, I nobler hold, though marred from her once state, Than others in their best integrity.

Sturley on November 4 answered a letter from Quiney written on October 25 which imported, wrote Sturley, `` that our countriman Mr. Wm. Shak. would procure us monei: which I will like of as I shall heare when, wheare & howe: and I prai let not go that occasion if it mai sort to ani indifferent condicions.

Baker wrote: `` I tooke order with Sr. E. Grevile for the payment of Ceartaine monei beefore his going towardes London.

He said he was a friend of Heywood Broun who had run a free employment bureau for several months during the depression, but the generous Broun to whom I wrote did not know his name and I somehow conceived the morbid notion that the man in question was prowling round the house.

Mr. Burlingham, -- `` C.C.B. '' -- wrote to me once about an old friend of mine, S. K. Ratcliffe, whom I had first met in London in 1914 and who also came out for a week-end in Weston.

It also happened with the Inauguration, which was not re-run at all during the evening hours, and I wrote to the TV editor of the Times.

I wrote her that I'd met up with Eileen and that old bonds had proved too strong and asked her to send my clothes down by express.

In December I wrote her with authority that we would meet on the steps of the Hotel Astor, a rendezvous spot that I had learned was the most sophisticated.

But in order to keep Letch in the public eye and out of trouble, I wrote in a part especially for him -- that of a dashing ruffian who `` sees the light '' and is saved by the inspiring example of Mother Cabrini.

`` I wrote Bill in my last letter to forget that I had told him that I didn't mean to reconsider my decision not to change my mind -- and he seems to have misunderstood me ''.

And so I would only touch upon it now ( much as I have long wanted to write a book about it ).

`` My mother read a book right after I was born and there was a Lilian in the book she loved and I became Lilian -- and eventually I became Paula ''.

I know you are very busy now, you are writing a great deal & your book is coming out, isn't it??

I had had my name taken out of the telephone book, and this was partly because of a convict who had been discharged from Sing Sing and who called me night after night.

I must have written to say how much I had enjoyed his fine book The Building Of Eternal Rome, and I found he had not regretted giving me the highest mark in his old course on the later Latin poets, although in my final examination I had ignored the questions and filled the bluebook with a comparison of Propertius and Coleridge.

Without the good magazines, without their book reviews, their hospitality to European writers, without above all their awareness of literary standards, we might very well have had a generation of Krim's heroes -- Wolfes, Farrells, Dreisers, and I might add, Sandburgs and Frosts and MacLeishes in verse -- and then where would we be??

I was surprised and sorry to find in your issue of March 4 a long and detailed attack upon a book that had not yet been published.

`` I have read an advance copy of the Snow book which is to be titled, ' Science And Government.

But I have compared its text with already published commentaries on the 1960 series of Godkin lectures at Harvard, from which the book was derived, and I can with confidence challenge the gist of C. P. Snow's incautious tale ''.

I made inquiries, I read a book of etiquette.

This brief resume hardly does the book justice, but I heartily recommend it to all those who are engages with the major problems of our time.

I mention these features of the book because they are inherent in the book's character and therefore must be mentioned.

In his analysis, however, he touches upon but fails to explore an idea, generally neglected in discussions of the book, which I believe is central to its art -- the importance of human hands as a recurring feature of the narrative.

She said, `` I guess the Lord looks out for fools, drunkards, and innocents ''.

Still, I was disgusted with myself for agreeing with Montero's methods.

I saw the clergyman kneel for a moment by the twitching body of the man he had shot, then run back to his position.

Now under me I could see him for what he really was, a boy dressed up in streaks of paint.

He pointed out the switch to me and for a moment I foolishly believed that he would let deed follow words.

Now, here was something of obvious importance to me, yet when I reached for the tickets he snatched them away from my hand.

Having nothing else to do except wait for my forms to be processed, I gave myself over to speculations concerning the hall itself.

For although I had crossed a corner of the hall on my way to the toilet I still could not tell for sure how far to the rear the darkness extended.

I had for some time been hoping, in vain, for one of the dim figures to pass between the fan vents and myself.

It was, I felt, possible that they were men who, having received no tickets for that day, had remained in the hall, to sleep perhaps, in the corners farthest removed from the counter with its overhead light.

I was constantly searching for clues around the neighborhood of the hall.

I returned to the hall, despite my dislike for the clerk.

When I went for my interview with the director I saw why.

No one was behind it, but in the rear wall of the office I noticed, for the first time, a door which had been left partially open.

Was I sure, he asked, that I knew what I was applying for??

Though I doubted that he would understand me, I told the director my motives for applying.

He said in a studied voice, `` I didn't do it for you.

I did it for the valley.

I was just doing my job, just following orders, and for that he's going to kill me.