Prose Is Like Hair; It Shines With

Come, Let’s Be Calm: No One Incapable Of Restraint Was Ever A Writer.

You Forget Everything. The Hours Slip By. You Travel In Your Chair Through Centuries You Seem Seem To See Before You, Your Thoughts Are Caught Up In The Story, Dallying With The Details Or Following The Course Of The Plot, You Enter Into Characters, So That It Seems As If It Were Your Own Heart Beating Beneath Their Costumes.

I Spent The Morning Putting In A Comma And The Afternoon Removing It.

The Citadel Of Machaerus Rose East Of The Dead Sea On A Basalt Peak Shaped Like A Cone, Girdled By Four Deep Valleys; Two About Its Sides, One In Front, And The Fourth Behind.

He Had The Vanity To Believe Men Did Not Like Him – While Men Simply Did Not Know Him.