A Writer Should Have The Precision Of

I Don't Want An Elderly Gentleman From Vienna With An Umbrella Inflicting His Dreams Upon Me.

Don't Cry, I'm Sorry To Have Deceived You So Much, But That's How Life Is.

She Had Spent All Her Life In Feeling Miserable; This Misery Was Her Native Element; Its Fluctuations, Its Varying Depths, Alone Save Her The Impression Of Moving And Living. What Bothers Me Is That A Sense Of Misery, And Nothing Else, Is Not Enough To Make A Permanent Soul. My Enormous And Morose Mademoiselle Is All Right On Earth But Impossible In Eternity.

A Good Laugh Is The Best Pesticide.

Who Can Say What Heartbreaks Are Caused In A Dog By Our Discontinuing A Romp?