Not The Why But The What.

I Do Not Think I Had Ever Seen A Nastier-looking Man. Under The Black Hat, When I Had First Seen Them, The Eyes Had Been Those Of An Unsuccessful Rapist.

There Were Many Words That You Could Not Stand To Hear And Finally Only The Names Of Places Had Dignity. Certain Numbers Were The Same Way And Certain Dates And These With The Names Of The Places Were All You Could Say And Have Them Mean Anything. Abstract Words Such As Glory, Honor, Courage, Or Hallow Were Obscene Beside The Concrete Names Of Villages, The Numbers Of Roads, The Names Of Rivers, The Numbers Of Regiments And The Dates.

Madame, All Stories, If Continued Far Enough, End In Death, And He Is No True-story Teller Who Would Keep That From You.

The Parody Is The Last Refuge Of The Frustrated Writer. Parodies Are What You Write When You Are Associate Editor Of The Harvard Lampoon. The Greater The Work Of Literature, The Easier The Parody. The Step Up From Writing Parodies Is Writing On The Wall Above The Urinal.

Never Think That War, No Matter How Necessary, Nor How Justified, Is Not A Crime.