Greed, Like The Love Of Comfort, Is

In My Religion, There Would Be No Exclusive Doctrine; All Would Be Love, Poetry, And Doubt.

What Grape To Keep Its Place In The Sun, Taught Our Ancestors To Make Wine?

The Detective Story Itself Is In A Dilemma. It Is A Vein Which Is In Danger Of Being Worked Out, The Demand Is Constant, The Powers Of Supply Variable, And The Reader, With Each One He Absorbs, Grows A Little More Sophisticated And Harder To Please, While The Novelist, After Each One He Writes, Becomes A Little More Exhausted.

A Great Writer Created A World Of His Own And His Readers Are Proud To Live In It. A Lesser Writer May Entice Them In For A Moment, But Soon He Will Watch Them Filing Out.

While Thoughts Exist, Words Are Alive And Literature Becomes An Escape, Not From, But Into Living.