I Shall Not Die Of A Cold.

Your Vivid, Exciting Companionship In The Office Must Not Be Your Audience, You Must Find Your Own Quiet Center Of Life, And Write From That To The World.

The Higher Processes Are All Processes Of Simplification. The Novelist Must Learn To Write, And Then He Must Unlearn It; Just As The Modern Painter Learns To Draw, And Then Learns When Utterly To Disregard His Accomplishment, When To Subordinate It To A Higher And Truer Effect.

Winter Lies Too Long In Country Towns; Hangs On Until It Is Stale And Shabby, Old And Sullen.

After All, The Supreme Virtue In All Art Is Soul, Perhaps It Is The Only Thing Which Gives Art A Right To Be.

The Miracles Of The Church Seem To Me To Rest Not So Much Upon Faces Or Voices Or Healing Power Coming Suddenly Near To Us From Afar Off, But Upon Our Perceptions Being Made Finer, So That For A Moment Our Eyes Can See And Our Ears Can Hear What Is There About Us Always.