The Craft Of The Novelist Does Lie

Solitary And Farouche People Don't Have Relationships; They Are Quite Unrelatable.

She Had One Of Those Charming Faces Which, According To The Angle From Which You See Them, Look Either Melancholy Or Impertinent. Her Eyes Were Grey; Her Trick Of Narrowing Them Made Her Seem To Reflect, The Greater Part Of The Time, In The Dusk Of Her Second Thoughts. With That Mood, That Touch Of Arriere Pensee, Went An Uncertain, Speaking Set Of Lips.

The Heart May Think It Knows Better: The Senses Know That Absence Blots People Out. We Really Have No Absent Friends.

Nothing Arrives On Paper As It Started, And So Much Arrives That Never Started At All. To Write Is Always To Rave A Little-even If One Did Once Know What One Meant

The Most Steady, The Most Self-sufficient Nature Depends, More Than It Knows, On Its Few Chosen Stimuli.