Venice Is All Sea And Sculpture.

Babies Are A Nuisance, Of Course. But So Does Everything Seem To Be That Is Worth While – Husbands And Books And Committees And Being Loved And Everything. We Have To Choose Between Barren Ease And Rich Unrest – Or Rather, One Does Not Choose.

Most Of Us Have To Be Self-righteous Before We Can Be Righteous.

The Joys Of Motherhood Are Not Excessively Apparent During The First Few Weeks Of A Baby's Life.

Nevertheless, Hateful As Saying 'no' Always Is To An Imaginative Person, And Certain As The Offence May Be That It Will Cause To Individuals Whose Own Work Does Not Require Isolated Effort, The Writer Who Is Engaged On A Book Must Learn To Say It. He Must Say It Consistently To All Interrupters; To The Numerous Callers And Correspondents Who Want Him To Speak, Open Bazaars, See Them For 'only' Ten Minutes, Attend Literary Parties, Put People Up, Or Read, Correct And Find Publishers For Semi-literate Manuscripts By His Personal Friends.

Few Of Humanity's Characteristics Are More Disconcerting Than Its Ability To Reduce World-events To Its Own Level, Wherever This May Happen To Be.