Life Began For Me, When I Ceased

[mark Twain] Is Still The Rough, Awkward, Good-natured Boy Who Swore At The Deck Hands When He Was Three Years Old. Thoroughly Likeable As A Good Fellow, But Impossible As A Man Of Letters.

One Afternoon Late In October Of The Year 1697, Euclide Auclair, The Philosopher Apothecary Of Quebec, Stood On The Top Of Cap Diamant Gazing Down The Broad, Empty River Far Beneath Him.

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.

The Condition Every Art Requires Is, Not So Much Freedom From Restriction, As Freedom From Adulteration And From The Intrusion Of Foreign Matter.

I Don't Want Anyone Reading My Writing To Think About Style. I Just Want Them To Be In The Story.