It Is Not That Death Comes, But

People In General Are Totally Unable To Detach The Personality Of A Writer From The Products Of His Thinking.

Hemingway, Damn His Soul, Makes Everything He Writes Terrifically Exciting (and Incidentally Makes All Us Second-raters Seem Positively Adolescent) By The Seemingly Simple Expedient Of The Iceberg Principle - Three-fourths Of The Substance Under The Surface. He Comes Closer That Way To Retaining The Magic Of The Original, Unexpressed Idea Or Emotion, Which Is Always More Stirring Than Any Words. But Just Try And Do It!

But To Make The Intangible Tangible, To Pick The Emotion Out Of The Air And Make It True For Others, Is Both The Blessing And The Curse Of The Writer, For The Thing Between Book Covers Is Never As Beautiful As The Thing He Imagined.

She Lives A Sophisticate's Life Among Worldly People. At The Slightest Excuse She Steps Out Of Civilization, Naked And Relieved, As I Should Step Out Of A Soiled Chemise.

It Is My Conviction That The Personality Of The Writer Has Nothing To Do With The Literate Product Of His Mind. And Publicity In This Case Embarrasses Me Because I Am Acutely Conscious Of How Far Short The Book Falls Of The Artistry I Am Struggling To Achieve. It's Like Being Caught Half-dressed.