“And as for writing my poetry, he claimed the toil of it was too much strain. Toil? Writing is my life. It is not toil. And he cannot stop me.”

“I held out my sisters' letters for him to read. Tears appeared in his eyes, and he kissed the letters and declared, "I love your sisters! It shall be the object of my life to justify the trust shown in these letters. May God bless them.”

“I reached for the notebook which was always close by. All thoughts of composing epic poems of Greek heroes had left me. The words that often burst from my onto the paper in recent days would be considered mere nothings to the world, but they were everything to me . . . They were the pourings of my heart FOR my heart . . .”

“I lifted my face to the sun and let its warmth and light caress me with its favor.”

“What also excites me is that the artist attempts with the visual what I attempt to do with words: stop time, create a moment, and celebrate the process.”

“But his letters . . . I took them with me, let the "ounces" cry aloud. I tried to leave, and could not. They would not be left; it was not my fault. I will not be scolded.”

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.' The list is long, Robert. Very long. And will grow longer still."He smiled. "Then let us begin with number one . . .”