It Was A Smooth Silvery Voice That

The Reading Public Is Intellectually Adolescent At Best, And It Is Obvious That What Is Called ''significant Literature'' Will Only Be Sold To This Public By Exactly The Same Methods As Are Used To Sell It Toothpaste, Cathartics And Automobiles.

Great Critics, Of Whom There Are Piteously Few, Build A Home For The Truth.

That's One Thing I Like About Hollywood. The Writer Is There Revealed In His Ultimate Corruption. He Asks No Praise, Because His Praise Comes To Him In The Form Of A Salary Check. In Hollywood The Average Writer Is Not Young, Not Honest, Not Brave, And A Bit Overdressed. But He Is Darn Good Company, Which Book Writers As A Rule Are Not. He Is Better Than What He Writes. Most Book Writers Are Not As Good.

Any Man Who Can Write A Page Of Living Prose Adds Something To Our Life, And The Man Who Can, As I Can, Is Surely The Last To Resent Someone Who Can Do It Even Better. An Artist Cannot Deny Art, Nor Would He Want To. A Lover Cannot Deny Love.

It Was About Eleven O'clock In The Morning, Mid October, With The Sun Not Shining And A Look Of Hard Wet Rain In The Clearness Of The Foothills. I Was Wearing My Powder-blue Suit, With Dark Blue Shirt, Tie And Display Handkerchief, Black Brogues, Black Wool Socks With Dark Little Clocks On Them. I Was Neat, Clean, Shaved And Sober, And I Didn't Care Who Knew It. I Was Everything The Well-dressed Private Detective Ought To Be. I Was Calling On Four Million Dollars.