In Literature, There Are Only Oxen. The

Clarity Is The Politeness Of The Man Of Letters.

It Doesn't Pay To Say Too Much When You Are Mad Enough To Choke. For The Word That Stings The Deepest Is The Word That Is Never Spoke, Let The Other Fellow Wrangle Till The Storm Has Blown Away, Then He'll Do A Heap Of Thinking About The Things You Didn't Say.

You Can Recover From The Writing Malady Only By Falling Mortally Ill And Dying.

Let Us Stay At Home: There We Are Decent. Let Us Not Go Out: Our Defects Wait For Us At The Door, Like Flies.

When I Think Of All The Books Still Left For Me To Read, I Am Certain Of Further Happiness.