She's A Writer. The Kind Of Writer

I Made My Fortune By Being Able To Spot A Certain Kind Of Man.

Because The Beauty Of The Human Body Is That It Hasn't A Single Muscle Which Doesn't Serve Its Purpose; That There's Not A Line Wasted; That Every Detail Of It Fits One Idea, The Idea Of A Man And The Life Of A Man.

A Rational Mind Does Not Work Under Compulsion; It Does Not Subordinate Its Grasp Of Reality To Anyone's Orders, Directives, Or Controls; It Does Not Sacrifice Its Knowledge, Its View Of The Truth, To Anyone's Opinions, Threats, Wishes, Plans.

Style Is Not An End In Itself, It Is Only A Means To An End - The Means Of Telling A Story.

The Pressure Disappeared With The First Word He Put On Paper. He Thought--while His Hand Moved Rapidly--what A Power There Was In Words; Later, For Those Who Heard Them, But First For The One Who Found Them; A Healing Power, A Solution, Like The Breaking Of A Barrier. He Thought, Perhaps The Basic Secret The Scientists Have Not Discovered, The First Fount Of Life, Is That Which Happens When A Thought Takes Shape In Words.