I Certainly Admire People Who Do Things.

Neither Of The Two People In The Room Paid Any Attention To The Way I Came In, Although Only One Of Them Was Dead.

Dead Men Are Heavier Than Broken Hearts.

One Would Think A Writer Would Be Happy Here — If A Writer Is Ever Happy Anywhere.

He Snorted And Hit Me In The Solar Plexus. I Bent Over And Took Hold Of The Room With Both Hands And Spun It. When I Had It Nicely Spinning I Gave It A Full Swing And Hit Myself On The Back Of The Head With The Floor.

There Is Something About The Literary Life That Repels Me, All This Desperate Building Of Castles On Cobwebs, The Long-drawn Acrimonious Struggle To Make Something Important Which We All Know Will Be Gone Forever In A Few Years, The Miasma Of Failure Which Is To Me Almost As Offensive As The Cheap Gaudiness Of Popular Success.