When One Loves One's Art No Service

Yes, I Get Dry Spells. Sometimes I Can't Turn Out A Thing For Three Months. When One Of Those Spells Comes On I Quit Trying To Work And Go Out And See Something Of Life. You Can't Write A Story That's Got Any Life In It By Sitting At A Writing Table And Thinking. You've Got To Get Out Into The Streets, Into The Crowds, Talk With People, And Feel The Rush And Throb Of Real Life-that's The Stimulant For A Story Writer.

There Was Clearly Nothing To Do But Flop Down On The Shabby Little Couch And Howl. So Della Did It. Which Instigates The Moral Reflection That Life Is Made Up Of Sobs, Sniffles, And Smiles, With Sniffles Predominating.

I Wanted To Paint A Picture Some Day That People Would Stand Before And Forget That It Was Made Of Paint. I Wanted It To Creep Into Them Like A Bar Of Music And Mushroom There Like A Soft Bullet.

If Man Knew How Women Pass The Time When They Are Alone, They'd Never Marry.

Not Very Long Ago Some One Invented The Assertion That There Were Only "four Hundred" People In New York City Who Were Really Worth Noticing. But A Wiser Man Has Arisen - The Census Taker - And His Larger Estimate Of Human Interest Has Been Preferred In Marking Out The Field Of These Little Stories Of The "four Million.