I Hold Any Writer Sufficiently Justified Who

The House Of Fiction Has In Short Not One Window, But A Million, ... But They Are, Singly, As Nothing Without The Posted Presence Of The Watcher.

She Feels In Italics And Thinks In Capitals.

Always Keep A Window In The Attic Open; Not Just Cracked: Open.

The Story Had Held Us, Round The Fire, Sufficiently Breathless, But Except The Obvious Remark That It Was Gruesome, As, On Christmas Eve In An Old House, A Strange Tale Should Essentially Be . . .

I Take Up My Own Pen Again - The Pen Of All My Old Unforgettable Efforts And Sacred Struggles. To Myself - Today - I Need Say No More. Large And Full And High The Future Still Opens. It Is Now Indeed That I May Do The Work Of My Life. And I Will.