I Suppose There Were Moonless Nights And

One May Have Staunch Friends In One's Own Family, But One Seldom Has Admirers.

Whatever Is Felt Upon The Page Without Being Specifically Named There - That, One Might Say, Is Created. It Is The Inexplicable Presence Of The Thing Not Named, Of The Overtone Divined By The Ear But Not Heard By It, The Verbal Mood, The Emotional Aura Of The Fact Or The Thing Or The Deed, That Gives High Quality To The Novel Or The Drama, As Well As To Poetry Itself.

Happy People Do A Great Deal For Their Friends.

Every Artist Makes Herself Born. You Must Bring The Artist Into The World Yourself.

The Test Of One's Decency Is How Much Of A Fight One Can Put Up After One Has Stopped Caring, And After One Has Found Out That One Can Never Please The People They Wanted To Please.