Sex, Without Society As Its Landscape, Has

It's One Of The Things Writing Students Don't Understand. They Write A First Draft And Are Quite Disappointed, Or Often Should Be Disappointed. They Don't Understand That They Have Merely Begun, And That They May Be Merely Beginning Even In The Second Or Third Draft.

The Greatest Gift Is A Passion For Reading. It Is Cheap, It Consoles, It Distracts, It Excites, It Gives You Knowledge Of The World And Experience Of A Wide Kind. It Is A Moral Illumination.

Many People Believe Letters The Most Personal And Revealing Form Of Communication. In Them, We Expect To Find The Charmer At His Nap, Slumped, Open-mouthed, Profoundly Himself Without Thought For Appearances. Yet, This Is Not Quite True. Letters Are Above All Useful As A Means Of Expressing The Ideal Self; And No Other Method Of Communication Is Quite So Good For This Purpose. In Conversation, Those Uneasy Eyes Upon You, Those Lips Ready With An Emendation Before You Have Begun To Speak, Are A Powerful Deterrent To Unreality, Even To Hope.

The Greatest Gift Is A Passion For Reading.

Sex Can No Longer Be The Germ, The Seed Of Fiction. Sex Is An Episode, Most Properly Conveyed In An Episodic Manner, Quickly, Often Ironically. It Is A Bursting Forth Of Only One Of The Cells In The Body Of The Omnipotent I, The One Who Hopes By Concentration Of Tone And Voice To Utter The Sound Of Reality.