The Trouble With You People Is That

The Point Of Good Writing Is Knowing When To Stop.

You Have The Itch For Writing Born In You. It's Quite Incurable. What Are You Going To Do With It?

It Was Rapture Enough Just To Sit There Beside Him In Silence, Alone In The Summer Night In The White Splendor Of Moonshine, With The Wind Blowing Down On Them Out Of The Pine Woods.

Isn't It Splendid To Think Of All The Things There Are To Find Out About? It Just Makes Me Feel Glad To Be Alive--it's Such An Interesting World. It Wouldn't Be Half So Interesting If We Know All About Everything, Would It? There'd Be No Scope For Imagination Then, Would There?but Am I Talking Too Much? People Are Always Telling Me I Do. Would You Rather I Didn't Talk? If You Say So I'll Stop. I Can Stop When I Make Up My Mind To It, Although It's Difficult.

There Might Be Some Hours Of Loneliness. But There Was Something Wonderful Even In Loneliness. At Least You Belonged To Yourself When You Were Lonely.