On An Exhausted Field, Only Weeds Grow.

Amid The Stillness Of The Night, In The Depths Of The Ravine, From The Direction In Which The Corpses Lay Suddenly Resounded A Kind Of Inhuman, Frightful Laughter In Which Quivered Despair, And Joy, And Cruelty, And Suffering, And Pain, And Sobbing, And Derision; The Heart-rending And Spasmodic Laughter Of The Insane Or Condemned.

The Profession Of The Writer Has Its Thorns About Which The Reader Does Not Dream.

Wealth Is Not A Hindrance, But Rather A Help Towards Attaining A Proper Standing In A Chosen Field Of Activity. I Confess That As Far As I Am Concerned, It Has Done Me Some Service As It Preserved My Character From Many A Crookedness Poverty Might Have Exposed It To.

Every Novelist Should Write Something For Children At Least Once In His Lifetime.

I Know From Experience That To One Who Thinks Much And Feels Deeply, It Often Seems That He Has Only To Put Down His Thoughts And Feelings In Order To Produce Something Altogether Out Of The Common; Yet As Soon As He Sets To Work He Falls Into A Certain Mannerism Of Style And Common Phraseology; His Thoughts Do Not Come Spontaneously, And One Might Almost Say That It Is Not The Mind That Directs The Pen, But The Pen Leads The Mind Into Common, Empty Artificiality.