The Only Kind Of Writing Is Rewriting.

Until You're Grown-up They Send You To Reform School. After You're Grown-up They Send You To The Penitentiary.

She Is Kind And Very Beautiful. But She Can Be So Cruel And It Comes So Suddenly And Such Birds That Fly, Dipping And Hunting, With Their Small Sad Voices Are Made Too Delicately For The Sea.

I Say That Is Wine," Brett Held Up Her Glass. "we Ought To Toast Something. 'here's To Royalty.'" "this Wine Is Too Good For Toast-drinking, My Dear. You Don't Want To Mix Emotions Up With A Wine Like That. You Lose The Taste." Brett's Glass Was Empty.

Never Confuse Motions With Action.

I Am Trying To Make, Before I Get Through, A Picture Of The Whole World--or As Much Of It As I Have Seen. Boiling It Down Always, Rather Than Spreading It Out Too Thin. (on Writing.)