Life Is The Wonder With Which We

Never, If You Can Possibly Help It, Write A Novel. It Is, In The First Place, A Thoroughly Unsocial Act. It Makes One Obnoxious To One's Family And To One's Friends. One Sits About For Many Weeks, Months, Even Years, In The Worst Cases, In A State Of Stupefaction.

At Heart A Truly Modest Man, He Had Nevertheless The Modest Man's Pride In His Modesty In The Face Of Achievement.

... [i]n Any War A Victory Means Another War, And Yet Another, Until Some Day Inevitably The Tides Turn, And The Victor Is The Vanquished, And The Circle Reverses Itself, But Remains Nevertheless A Circle.

Every Event Has Had Its Cause, And Nothing, Not The Least Wind That Blows, Is Accident Or Causeless.

The Truly Creative Mind In Any Field Is No More Than This: A Human Creature Born Abnormally, Inhumanly Sensitive. To Him... A Touch Is A Blow, A Sound Is A Noise, A Misfortune Is A Tragedy, A Joy Is An Ecstasy, A Friend Is A Lover, A Lover Is A God, And Failure Is Death.