The Envious Will Die, But Envy Never.

Perfect Reason Avoids All Extremes.

The Maturing Process Of Becoming A Writer Is Akin To That Of A Harlot. First You Do It For Love, Then For A Few Friends, And Finally Only For Money.

What! Would You Make No Distinction Between Hypocrisy And Devotion? Would You Give Them The Same Names, And Respect The Mask As You Do The Face? Would You Equate Artifice And Sincerity? Confound Appearance With Truth? Regard The Phantom As The Very Person? Value Counterfeit As Cash?

There Is No Reward So Delightful, No Pleasure So Exquisite, As Having One's Work Known And Acclaimed By Those Whose Applause Confers Honor.

You Never See The Old Austerity That Was The Essence Of Civility; Young People Hereabouts, Unbridled, Now Just Want.