Americans Admire Success. Englishmen Admire Heroic Failure

If The Soul Cannot Find Its Jacket. It Is Condemned To An Eternity Of Wandering--naked And Alone

If My Father Were Still Writing Essays, Every Full-grown 'girl' Would Probably Be Transformed Into A'woman'.

Our View Of Reality Is Only A View, Not Reality Itself.

Muses Are Fickle, And Many A Writer, Peering Into The Voice, Has Escaped Paralysis By Ascribing The Creative Responsibility To A Talisman: A Lucky Charm, A Brand Of Paper, But Most Often A Writing Instrument. Am I Writing Well? Thank My Pen. Am I Writing Badly? Don't Blame Me Blame My Pen. By Such Displacements Does The Fearful Imagination Defend Itself.

I Have Never Been Able To Resist A Book About Books.