Prose Is Like Hair; It Shines With

There Is No Truth. There Is Only Perception.

There Comes A Point At Which You Stop Writing And Think All The More

You Forget Everything. The Hours Slip By. You Travel In Your Chair Through Centuries You Seem Seem To See Before You, Your Thoughts Are Caught Up In The Story, Dallying With The Details Or Following The Course Of The Plot, You Enter Into Characters, So That It Seems As If It Were Your Own Heart Beating Beneath Their Costumes.

Criticism Occupies The Lowest Place In The Literary Hierarchy: As Regards Form, Almost Always; And As Regards Moral Value, Incontestably. It Comes After Rhyming Games And Acrostics, Which At Least Require A Certain Inventiveness.

As Words Have An Effective Power Of Their Own, Curses Reported Against Someone Might Turn Against The Speaker.