It Was A Splendid Summer Morning And

If There Is Anybody I Detest, It Is Weak-minded Sentimentalists-all Those Melancholy People Who, Out Of An Excess Of Sympathy For Others, Miss The Thrill Of Their Own Essence And Drift Through Life Without Identity, Like A Human Fog, Feeling Sorry For Everyone.

A Lonely Man Is A Lonesome Thing, A Stone, A Bone, A Stick, A Receptacle For Gilbey's Gin, A Stooped Figure Sitting At The Edge Of A Hotel Bed, Heaving Copious Sighs Like The Autumn Wind.

Without A Reader, I Cannot Write. It's Like A Kiss: They Cannot Be Done Alone.

Art Is The Triumph Over Chaos.

The Main Emotion Of The Adult American Who Has Had All The Advantages Of Wealth, Education, And Culture Is Disappointment.