We Shall Know That We Have Begun

Emile Saint-blague Had Been A Lively, Versatile Painter In His Youth, But He Had Abused His Energy By Painting Too Many Pictures; So That In What Might Have Been The Ripe Period Of His Art He Had Nothing Left But Ideas. A Man Who Has Nothing Left But Ideas May Be Of Great Service To His Friends, But He Is Of No Use At All To Himself. Emile Was Certainly An Inspiration To His Friends.

Daisy Was A Consciously Happy Young Woman Without Any Of The Usual Endowments That Make For Conscious Happiness, Money Apart. She Was Not Pretty, She Was Not Clever, She Had No Friends, No Talents, Nor Even An Imagination To Make Her Think She Was Happy When She Was Really Miserable. As She Was Never Miserable, She Had No Need Of An Imagination.

... Whatever Is Not Happening Now Is Unimportant; It Is Merely Curious.

If What You Write Is True, It Will Not Be So Because Of What You Are As A Writer But Because Of What You Are As A Being. There Can Be No Literary Equivalent To Truth.

Anger Is Precious Because It Is An Immediate, Undeniable Clue To What Our Minds (so Much More Cautious In Rejection And Resistance Than Our Bodies) Will Not Tolerate.