Fiction Is History, Human History, Or It

Vanity Plays Lurid Tricks With Our Memory.

Society Was Calling To Its Accomplished Child To Come, To Be Taken Care Of, To Be Instructed, To Be Judged, To Be Condemned; It Called Him To Return To That Rubbish Heap From Which He Had Wandered Away, So That Justice Could Be Done.

The Terrorist And The Policeman Both Come From The Same Basket.

The East Wind, An Interloper In The Dominions Of Westerly Weather, Is An Impassive-faced Tyrant With A Sharp Poniard Held Behind His Back For A Treacherous Stab.

Any Work That Aspires, However Humbly, To The Condition Of Art Should Carry Its Justification In Every Line.