Genius, Like Truth, Has A Shabby And

Man Pines To Live But Cannot Endure The Days Of His Life.

Hardly A Book Of Human Worth, Be It Heaven's Own Secret, Is Honestly Placed Before The Reader; It Is Either Shunned, Given A Periclean Funeral Oration In A Hundred And Fifty Words, Or Interred In The Potter's Field Of The Newspapers Back Pages.

We Can Only Write Well About Our Sins Because It Is Too Difficult To Recall A Virtuous Act Or Even Whether It Was The Result Of Good Or Evil Motives.

A Painter Can Hang His Pictures, But A Writer Can Only Hang Himself.

What Is Most Appalling In An F. Scott Fitzgerald Book Is That It Is Peopleless Fiction: Fitzgerald Writes About Spectral, Muscledsuits; Dresses, Hats, And Sleeves Which Have Some Sort Of Vague, Libidinous Throb. These Are Plainly The Product Of Sickness.