To Have No Ideas And Being Able

Sorrento, August. For Two Weeks Now I Haven't Heard A German Word Or Understood An Italian One. This Way One Can Manage To Live With People; Everything Goes Like Clockwork And No Irksome Misunderstanding Can Arise.

A Good Writer Does Not Receive Anywhere Near The Number Of Poison-pen Letters That Is Commonly Assumed. Among A Hundred Jackassesthere Are Not Ten Who Will Admit To Being Jackasses, And At Most One Who Will Put It In Writing.

The Press, That Goiter Of The World, Swells Up With The Desire For Conquest And Bursts With The Achievements Which Every Day Brings. A Week Has Room For The Boldest Climax Of The Human Drive For Expansion.

Adults Who Still Derive Childlike Pleasure From Hanging Gifts Of A Ready-made Education On The Christmas Tree Of A Child Waiting Outside The Door To Life Do Not Realize How Unreceptive They Are Making The Children To Everything That Constitutes The True Surprise Of Life.

I And My Public Understand Each Other Very Well: It Does Not Hear What I Say, And I Don't Say What It Wants To Hear.