All Men Are Loyal, But Their Objects

Yet Everyone Begins In The Same Place; How Is It That Most Go Along Without Difficulty But A Few Lose Their Way?

The Horror Of Our History Has Purged Me Of Opinions.

Nothing Is Intrinsically Valuable; The Value Of Everything Is Attributed To It, Assigned To It From Outside The Thing Itself, By People.

Those Rituals Of Getting Ready To Write Produce A Kind Of Trance State.

I Don't See How Anybody Starts A Novel Without Knowing How It's Going To End. I Usually Make Detailed Outlines: How Many Chapters It Will Be And So Forth.