Only A Woman, Divine, Could Know All

Whatever Is Felt Upon The Page Without Being Specifically Named There — That, One Might Say, Is Created.

[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.

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

Loyal? As Loyal As Anyone Who Plays Second Fiddle Ever Is.

A Work-room Should Be Like An Old Shoe; No Matter How Shabby, It's Better Than A New One.