Nothing Is More Restful Than Conformity.

No Object Is Mysterious. The Mystery Is Your Eye.

One's Sentiments -- Call Them That -- One's Fidelities Are So Instinctive That One Hardly Knows They Exist: Only When They Are Betrayed Or, Worse Still, When One Betrays Them Does One Realize Their Power.

Somehow At Parties At Which One Stays Standing Up One Seems To Require To Be More Concentratedly Intelligent Than One Does At Those At Which One Can Sit Down.

Ghosts, We Hope, May Be Always With Us - That Is, Never Too Far Out Of The Reach Of Fancy. On The Whole, It Would Seem They Adapt Themselves Well, Perhaps Better Than We Do, To Changing World Conditions - They Enlarge Their Domain, Shift Their Hold On Our Nerves, And, Dispossessed Of One Habitat, Set Up House In Another. The Universal Battiness Of Our Century Looks Like Providing Them With A Propitious Climate.

The Most Striking Fault In Work By Young Or Beginning Novelists, Submitted For Criticism, Is Irrelevance--due Either To Infatuation Or Indecision. To Direct Such An Author's Attention To The Imperative Of Relevance Is Certainly The Most Useful--and Possibly The Only--help That Can Be Given.