O God, Let Me Write Books! Please,

It Was A Perfect Spring Afternoon, And The Air Was Filled With Vague, Roving Scents, As If The Earth Exhaled The Sweetness Of Hidden Flowers.

Youth Is The Period Of Harsh Judgments, And A Man Seldom Learns Until He Reaches Thirty That Human Nature Is Made Up Not Of Simples, But Of Compounds.

Irony Is An Indispensable Ingredient Of The Critical Vision; It Is The Safest Antidote To Sentimental Decay.

Some Women Enjoy Unhappy Love Affairs, You Know, Though I Have Always Felt That They Are Greatly Overrated.

The Things I Feared Were Not In The Sky, But In The Nature And In The Touch Of Humanity. The Cruelty Of Children . . . The Blindness Of The Unpitiful - These Were My Terrors. But Not The Crash Of Thunder Overhead, Not The Bolts Of Fire From The Clouds.