There Are No Little People In America.

If You Tell An Amateur That His Story Is Not Good, He Always Declares Indignantly: 'oh, But It Really Happened Just Like This!' The Writer Who Doesn't Understand That This Is Beside The Point Is Not A Writer At All.

The Sky Is Like A Black Sieve Pierced By Silver Drops That Tremble, Ready To Burst Through.

She Thought How Strange It Would Be If She Ever Said 'hello' To Him. One Did Not Greet Oneself Each Morning.

But This Was That View Of Human Destiny Which She Had Most Passionately Hated And Rejected: The View That Man Was Ever To Be Drawn By Some Vision Of The Unattainable Shining Ahead, Doomed Ever To Aspire, But Not To Achieve. Her Life And Her Values Could Not Bring Her To That, She Thought; She Had Never Found Beauty In Longing For The Impossible And Had Never Found The Possible To Be Beyond Her Reach.

The Best, Most Natural Dialogue Is Usually Written As If The Writer Is Listening To Dictation. You Might Get Stuck On Any Particular Point And Have To Question Yourself; But Normally, Dialogue Writes Itself.