We Breathe Love As We Breathe Air;

The Public Is Composed Of Numerous Groups Whose Cry To Us Writers Is: 'comfort Me.' 'amuse Me.' 'touch My Sympathies.' 'make Me Sad.' 'make Me Dream.' 'make Me Laugh.' 'make Me Shiver.' 'make Me Weep.' 'make Me Think.'

The Simplest Of Women Are Wonderful Liars Who Can Extricate Themselves From The Most Difficult Dilemmas With A Skill Bordering On Genius.

Sometimes Our Thoughts Turn Back Toward A Corner In A Forest, Or The End Of A Bank, Or An Orchard Powdered With Flowers, Seen But A Single Time On Some Happy Day, Yet Remaining In Our Hearts And Leaving In Soul And Body An Unappeased Desire Which Is Not To Be Forgotten, A Feeling That We Have Just Rubbed Elbows With Happiness.

To Contest An Author's Right To Create A Poetic Or Realistic Work Is To Want To Force Him To Change His Temperament, Challenge His Originality, Refuse To Allow Him To Use The Eye And The Intelligence Nature Has Given Him.

History, That Excitable And Unreliable Old Lady.