Till I, High In The Tower Of

Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.

When In Still Air And Still In Summertime A Leaf Has Had Enough Of This, It Seems To Make Up Its Mind To Go; Fine As A Sage Its Drifting In Detachment Down The Road.

The Only Way Out Is The Way Through, Just As You Cannot Escape Death Except By Dying. Being Unable To Write, You Must Examine In Writing This Being Unable, Which Becomes For The Present -henceforth?- The Subject To Which You Are Condemned.

For A Jewish Puritan Of The Middle Class, The Novel Is Serious, The Novel Is Work, The Novel Is Conscientious Application Why, The Novel Is Practically The Retail Business All Over Again.

I Have A Plot, But Not Much Happens.