Always Quit For The Day When You

Don't You Like To Write Letters? I Do Because It's Such A Swell Way To Keep From Working And Yet Feel You've Done Something.

The Brown Blotches Of The Benevolent Skin Cancer The Sun Brings From Its Reflection On The Tropic Sea Were On His Cheeks. The Blotches Ran Well Down The Sides Of His Face And His Hands Had The Deep-creased Scars From Handling Heavy Fish On The Cords. But None Of These Scars Were Fresh. They Were As Old As Erosions In A Fishless Desert.

But Paris Was A Very Old City And We Were Young And Nothing Was Simple There.

If A Writer Knows Enough About What He Is Writing About, He May Omit Things That He Knows. The Dignity Of Movement Of An Iceberg Is Due To Only One Ninth Of It Being Above Water.

What A Writer Has To Do Is Write What Hasn't Been Written Before Or Beat Dead Men At What They Have Done.