The Real Sin Against Life Is To

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.

Your Mind Outwears All Sorts Of Things You May Set Your Heart Upon; You Can Enjoy It When All Other Things Are Taken Away.

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.

I've Been Called A Stylist Until I Really Could Tear My Hair Out. And I Simply Don't Believe In Style. The Style Is You.

I Am In Paris. Yes Ma'am , I Made It Back. I Came Up From Berlin, Stopped Here Ten Days, Fought A Losing Battle Against My Deepest Inclinations, Pulled Myself Out By The Hair And Went To Madrid...madrid Is A Lovely Enchanting City, And There Was Almost Ready For Me A Kind Of Penthouse Full Of Sunlight, A Roof Garden, And So On. I Gave One Look At It All, Returned To The Hotel And Went To Bed And Wept Bitterly For Eleven Hours...why? Because I Had Seen Paris And Could Not Endure The Thought Of Being Anywhere Else.