One Of The Marks Of A Gift

We Have The Bad Habit, Some Of Us, Of Looking Back To A Time - Almost Any Time Will Do - When Society Was Stable And Orderly, Family Ties Stronger And Deeper, Love More Lasting And Faithful, And So On. Let Me Be Your Cassandra Prophesying After The Fact, And A Long Study Of The Documents In The Case: It Was Never True, That Is, No Truer Than It Is Now.

And Yet, We Know How Fatal The Pursuit Of Liveliness May Be: It May Result In ... Tiresome Acrobatics. ... Flashy Effects Distract The Mind. They Destroy Their Persuasiveness; You Would Not Believe A Man Was Very Intent On Ploughing A Furrow If He Carried A Hoop With Him And Jumped Through It At Every Other Step. ... When Virtuosity Gets The Upper Hand Of Your Theme, Or Is Better Than Your Idea, It Is Time To Quit.

Writing, In Any Sense That Matters, Cannot Be Taught. It Can Only Be Learned By Each Separate One Of Us In His Own Way, By The Use Of His Own Powers Of Imagination And Perception, The Ability To Learn The Lessons He Has Set For Himself.

We Are Born Knowing Death.

It Is As Hard To Find A Neutral Critic As It Is A Neutral Country In Time Of War. I Suppose If A Critic Were Neutral, He Wouldn't Trouble To Write Anything.