One Word Of Praise From A Woman

It Is Quiet And Peaceful Here, The Air Is Good, There Are Numerous Gardens, And In Them Nightingales Sing And Spies Lurk Under The Bushes.

There's A Little Book I'm Thinking Of Writing - "swan Song" Is What I Shall Call It. The Song Of The Dying. And My Book Will Be Incense Burnt At The Deathbed Of This Society, Damned With The Damnation Of Its Own Impotence.

Writers Build Castles In The Air, The Reader Lives Inside, And The Publisher Inns The Rent.

Many Contemporary Authors Drink More Than They Write.

We Kill Everybody, My Dear. Some With Bullets, Some With Words, And Everybody With Our Deeds. We Drive People Into Their Graves, And Neither See It Nor Feel It.