A Happy Childhood Has Spoiled Many A

Many Authors Write Like Amateur Blacksmiths Making Their First Horseshoe; The Clank Of The Anvil, The Stench Of The Scorched Leather Apron, The Sparks And The Cursing Are Palpable, And This Appeals To Those Who Rank "sincerity" Very High. Nabokov Is More Like A Master Swordsmith Making A Fine Blade; Nothing Is Amiss, Nothing Is Too Much, There Is No Fuss, And The Finished Product Must Be Handled With Great Care, Or It Will Cut You Badly.

Very Few [doctors] Are Men Of Science In Any Very Serious Sense; They're Men Of Technique.

I Think A Lot Of People Have Unreasonable Expectations Because They Never Stop To Consider What Life Actually Has To Offer Them. They're Always Looking For Some Great Epiphany From The Skies. They Never Stop To Consider The Fact Which Human Beings Find Hardest To Recognize: "maybe I'm Not Worthy Of An Epiphany.

It Is Those Pent-up, Craving Children Who Make All The Wars And All The Horrors And All The Art And All The Beauty And Discovery In Life, Because They Are Trying To Achieve What Lay Beyond Their Grasp Before They Were Five Years Old.

I Came At Last To A Recognition Of Myself As, In Part, A Tom Sawyer Who Wanted Everything Done According To The Rules Of Romantic Fiction, And Complicated Simple Solutions With His Absurd Adolescent, Book-born Nonsense.