I Think That In Order To Write

Writers Of Novels Are So Busy Being Solitary That They Haven't Time To Meet One Another. But Then, A Writer Learns Nothing From A Writer, Conversationally. If A Writer Has Anything Witty, Profound Or Quotable To Say He Doesn't Say It. He's No Fool. He Writes It.

A Story Must Simmer In Its Own Juice For Months Or Even Years Before It's Ready To Serve.

If It's Freedom You Want, Come To Texas. No One There Tells You What To Do And How You Have To Do It.

Wasn't Marriage, Like Life, Unstimulating And Unprofitable And Somewhat Empty When Too Well Ordered And Protected And Guarded. Wasn't It Finer, More Splendid, More Nourishing, When It Was, Like Life Itself, A Mixture Of The Sordid And The Magnificent; Of Mud And Stars; Of Earth And Flowers; Of Love And Hate And Laughter And Tears And Ugliness And Beauty And Hurt.

It's Terrible To Realize That You Don't Learn How To Live Until You're Ready To Die; And, Then It's Too Late.