Fate Is Not An Eagle, It Creeps

Often When I Write I Am Trying To Make Words Do The Work Of Line And Color. I Have The Painter's Sensitivity To Light. Much Of My Writing Is Verbal Painting.

Characters Should On The Whole, Be Under Rather Than Over Articulate. What They Intend To Say Should Be More Evident, More Striking (because Of Its Greater Inner Importance To The Plot) Than What They Arrive At Saying.

Habit Is Not Mere Subjugation, It Is A Tender Tie; When One Remembers Habit It Seems To Have Been Happiness.

First Love, With Its Frantic Haughty Imagination, Swings Its Object Clear Of The Everyday, Over The Rut Of Living, Making Him All Looks, Silences, Gestures, Attitudes, A Burning Phrase With No Context.

Proust Has Pointed Out That The Predisposition To Love Creates Its Own Objects; Is This Not Also True Of Fear?