Walt Whitman's A Hell Of A Lot

In Certain Savage Tribes In New Guinea, They Put The Old People Up In The Trees And Shake Them Once A Year In The Spring; If They Don't Fall Out They Let Them Live Another Year.

It Was The Ponderous Battering Ram Of His Novels That Opened The Way Through The Genteel Reticences Of American Nineteenth-century Fiction. . . Without [theodore] Dreiser's Treading Out A Path For Naturalism None Of Us Would Have Had A Chance To Publish.

There Are Too Many "creative Writing" Courses And Seminars, In Which Young Wirters Are Constantly Being Taught To Rewrite The Previous Generation. They Should Be Experimenting On Their Own. Every Writer Faces Different Problems Which He Must Solve For Himself.

Time Has An Undertaking Establishment On Every Block And Drives His Coffin Nails Faster Than The Steam Riveters Rivet Or The Stenographers Type Or The Tickers Tick Out Fours And Eights And Dollar Signs And Ciphers.

There's Something Wonderfully Exciting About The Quiet Sing Song Of An Aeroplane Overhead With All The Guns In Creation Lighting Out At It, And Searchlights Feeling Their Way Across The Sky Like Antennae, And The Earth Shaking Snort Of The Bombs And The Whimper Of Shrapnel Pieces When They Come Down To Patter On The Roof.