Sex Is A Slotmachine.

In Certain Savage Tribes In New Guinea, They Put The Old People Up In The Trees And Shake Them Once A Year In The Spring; If They Don't Fall Out They Let Them Live Another Year.

I Dont Think There Is Anything On Earth More Wonderful Than Those Wistful Incomplete Friendships One Makes Now And Then In An Hour's Talk. You Never See The People Again, But The Lingering Sense Of Their Presence In The World Is Like The Glow Of An Unseen City At Night--makes You Feel The Teemingness Of It All.

There Are Too Many "creative Writing" Courses And Seminars, In Which Young Wirters Are Constantly Being Taught To Rewrite The Previous Generation. They Should Be Experimenting On Their Own. Every Writer Faces Different Problems Which He Must Solve For Himself.

Women Hock Their Jewels And Their Husbands' Insurance Policies To Acquire An Unaccustomed Shade In Hair Or Crêpe De Chine. Why Then Is It That When Anyone Commits Anything Novel In The Arts He Should Be Always Greeted By This Same Peevish Howl Of Pain And Surprise? One Is Led To Suspect That The Interest People Show In These Much Talked Of Commodities, Painting, Music, And Writing, Cannot Be Very Deep Or Very Genuine When They So Wince Under An Unexpected Impact.

The World's Becoming A Museum Of Socialist Failures.