Hill House, She Thought, You're As Hard

Dad And I Did Not Care At All For Your Story In The New Yorker … [i]t Does Seem, Dear, That This Gloomy Kind Of Story Is What All You Young People Think About These Days. Why Don't You Write Something To Cheer People Up?

In Ten Years I Will Be A Beautiful Charming Lovely Lady Writer Without Any Husband Or Children But Lots Of Lovers And Everyone Will Read The Books I Write And Want To Marry Me But I Will Never Marry Any Of Them. I Will Have Lots Of Money And Jewels Too.

I Came To Believe That Being A Private Detective Was The Work I Was Meant To Do.

It Was A House Without Kindness, Never Meant To Be Lived In, Not A Fit Place For People Or For Love Or For Hope. Exorcism Cannot Alter The Countenance Of A House ; Hill House Would Stay As It Was Until It Was Destroyed.

I Cannot Find Any Patience For Those People Who Believe That You Start Writing When You Sit Down At Your Desk And Pick Up Your Pen And Finish Writing When You Put Down Your Pen Again; A Writer Is Always Writing, Seeing Everything Through A Thin Mist Of Words, Fitting Swift Little Descriptions To Everything He Sees, Always Noticing. Just As I Believe That A Painter Cannot Sit Down To His Morning Coffee Without Noticing What Color It Is, So A Writer Cannot See An Odd Little Gesture Without Putting A Verbal Description To It, And Ought Never To Let A Moment Go By Undescribed.