Knowledge, Like Experience, Is Valid In Fiction

...i Had Grown Up In A World That Was Dominated By Immature Age. Not By Vigorous Immaturity, But By Immaturity That Was Old And Tired And Prudent, That Loved Ritual And Rubric, And Was Utterly Wanting In Curiosity About The New And The Strange. Its Era Has Passed Away, And The World It Made Has Crumbled Around Us. Its Finest Creation, A Code Of Manners, Has Been Ridiculed And Discarded.

Yes, I Learned Long Ago That The Only Satisfaction Of Authorship Lies In Finding The Very Few Who Understand What We Mean. As For Outside Rewards, There Is Not One That I Have Ever Discovered.

There Is No State Of Satisfaction, Because To Himself No Man Is A Success.

Spring Was Running In A Thin Green Flame Over The Valley.

As Far Back As I Remember, Long Before I Could Write, I Had Played At Making Stories. But Not Until I Was Seven Or More, Did I Begin To Pray Every Night, "o God, Let Me Write Books! Please, God, Let Me Write Books!"