What A Heavy Oar The Pen Is,

Talent Is A Long Patience.

I Am Irritated By My Own Writing. I Am Like A Violinist Whose Ear Is True, But Whose Fingers Refuse To Reproduce Precisely The Sound He Hears Within.

I Have The Handicap Of Being Born With A Special Language To Which I Alone Have The Key.

A Rich Woman Seems To Have All Her Banknotes About Her, Guarding Her Virtue, Like A Cuirass, In The Lining Of Her Corset.

I Spent The Morning Putting In A Comma And The Afternoon Removing It.