The Writer Must Hew The Phantom Rock.

And The Curt Truth Is That, In A Deep Secret Way, The State Of Being Loved Is Intolerable To Many.

Some Men Are Heroes By Nature In That They Will Give All That Is In Them Without Regard To The Effort Or To The Personal Returns.

Comparing The Brooklyn That I Know With Manhattan Is Like Comparing A Comfortable And Complacent Duenna To Her More Brilliant And Neurotic Sister.

The Mind Is Like A Richly Woven Tapestry In Which The Colors Are Distilled From The Experiences Of The Senses, And The Design Drawn From The Convolutions Of The Intellect.

All Men Are Lonely. But Sometimes It Seems To Me That We Americans Are The Loneliest Of All. Our Hunger For Foreign Places And New Ways Has Been With Us Almost Like A National Disease. Our Literature Is Stamped With A Quality Of Longing And Unrest, And Our Writers Have Been Great Wanderers.