I Wondered If The Life That Was

Most Of The Basic Material A Writer Works With Is Acquired Before The Age Of Fifteen.

I Suppose There Were Moonless Nights And Dark Ones With But A Silver Shaving And Pale Stars In The Sky, But I Remember Them All As Flooded With The Rich Indolence Of A Full Moon.

Every Artist Makes Herself Born. You Must Bring The Artist Into The World Yourself.

We All Like People Who Do Things, Even If We Only See Their Faces On Cigar-box Lids.

Sometimes I Wonder Why God Ever Trusts Talent In The Hands Of Women, They Usually Make Such An Infernal Mess Of It. I Think He Must Do It As A Sort Of Ghastly Joke.