Green Leaves On A Dead Tree Is

Whom The Gods Wish To Destroy They First Call Promising.

The Detective Story Itself Is In A Dilemma. It Is A Vein Which Is In Danger Of Being Worked Out, The Demand Is Constant, The Powers Of Supply Variable, And The Reader, With Each One He Absorbs, Grows A Little More Sophisticated And Harder To Please, While The Novelist, After Each One He Writes, Becomes A Little More Exhausted.

Dining Out Is A Vice, A Dissipation Of Spirit Punished By Remorse. We Eat, Drink, And Talk A Little Too Much, Abuse All Our Friends, Belch Out Our Literary Preferences And Are Egged On By Accomplices In The Audience To Acts Of Mental Exhibitionism. Such Evenings Cannot Fail To Diminish Those Who Take Part In Them. They End On Monkey Hill.

The Man Who Is Master Of His Passions Is Reason's Slave.

There Is No Hate Without Fear. Hate Is Crystallized Fear, Fear's Dividend, Fear Objectivized. We Hate What We Fear And So Where Hate Is, Fear Is Lurking. Thus We Hate What Threatens Our Person, Our Liberty, Our Privacy, Our Income, Our Popularity, Our Vanity And Our Dreams And Plans For Ourselves. If We Can Isolate This Element In What We Hate We May Be Able To Cease From Hating... Hate Is The Consequence Of Fear; We Fear Something Before We Hate; A Child Who Fears Noises Becomes The Man Who Hates Them.