Everybody's Tragedy Is Somebody's Nuisance.

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.

Remorse ... Is One Of The Many Afflictions For Which Time Finds A Cure.

Public Work Brings A Vicarious But Assured Sense Of Immortality. We May Be Poor, Weak, Timid, In Debt To Our Landlady, Bullied By Our Nieces, Stiff In The Joints, Shortsighted And Distressed; We Shall Perish, But The Cause Endures; The Cause Is Great.

What With The Reviews Of Critics, The Sarcasms Of One's Friends, The Reproaches Of One's Own Taste, There's Precious Little Peace After Publishing A Book.

I Like A Bit Of Color Myself, I Must Say. At My Time Of Life, If You Wear Nothing But Black, People Might Think You Were Too Mean To Change Frocks Between Funerals.