A Woman's Desire For Revenge Outlasts All

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.

I Review Novels To Make Money, Because It Is Easier For A Sluggard To Write An Article A Fortnight Than A Book A Year, Because The Writer Is Soothed By The Opiate Of Action, The Crank By Posing As A Good Journalist, And Having An Air Hole. I Dislike It. I Do It And I Am Always Resolving To Give It Up.

Hemingway Is Great In That Alone Of Living Writers He Has Saturated His Work With The Memory Of Physical Pleasure, With Sunshine And Salt Water, With Food, Wine And Making Love And The Remorse Which Is The Shadow Of That Sun.

A Lazy Person, Whatever The Talents With Which He Set Out, Will Have Condemned Himself To Second-hand Thoughts And To Second-rate Friends.

Failure On The Other Hand Is Infectious. The World Is Full Of Charming Failures (for All Charming People Have Something To Conceal, Usually Their Total Dependence On The Appreciation Of Others) And Unless The Writer Is Quite Ruthless With These Amiable Footlers, They Will Drag Him Down With Them.