Silence Sat In The Taxi, As Though

The Story Must Spring From An Impression Or Perception Pressing Enough To Have Made The Writer Write. It Should Magnetize The Imagination And Give Pleasure.

Almost Everyone Admits To Hunger During The Opera.... Hunger Is So Exalting That During A Last Act You Practically Levitate.

It Is In This Unearthly First Hour Of Spring Twilight That Earth's Almost Agonized Livingness Is Most Felt. This Hour Is So Dreadful To Some People That They Hurry Indoors And Turn On The Lights.

I Am Dead Against Art's Being Self-expression. I See An Inherent Failure In Any Story Which Fails To Detach Itself From The Author-detach Itself In The Sense That A Well-blown Soap-bubble Detaches Itself From The Bowl Of The Blower's Pipe And Spherically Takes Off Into The Air As A New, Whole, Pure, Iridescent World. Whereas The Ill-blown Bubble, As Children Know, Timidly Adheres To The Bowl's Lip, Then Either Bursts Or Sinks Flatly Back Again.

Have Not All Poetic Truths Been Already Stated? The Essence Of A Poetic Truth Is That No Statement Of It Can Be Final.