No, The Menace Of The Supernatural Is

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

I Would Have To Find Something Else To Bury Here And I Wished It Could Be Charles.

February, When The Days Of Winter Seem Endless And No Amount Of Wistful Recollecting Can Bring Back Any Air Of Summer.

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.

A Pretty Sight, A Lady With A Book.