What A Strange Distance There Is Between

But To Write - That Is Grief And Labor; And To Read What One Has Written - How Unlike The Story As One Saw It; How Dull, How Spirtless - That Is Enough To Send One Weeping To Bed.

Teachers Have Power. We May Cripple Them By Petty Economics; By Government Regulations, By The Foolish Criticism Of An Uninformed Press; But Their Power Exists For Good Or Evil.

I Advise Nobody To Drown Sorrow In Cocoa. It Is Bad For The Figure And It Does Not Alleviate The Sorrow.

Why, Why, When One Writes, Does A Sort Of Shackle Bind One's Imagination? I Become Conscious Of A Deadening Mediocrity, Perhaps A Form Of Mental Cowardice, And I Long To Break Free, To Let My Imagination Take Wings. It Doesn't - Yet.

The Greatest Mercy, I Have Often Thought, Of The Mediterranean Coast Lies In Its Mosquitoes. Did We Not Suffer From Their Unwelcome Attention, We Could Not Bear Our Holidays To End.