Be Respectful Of Words. They Mean Something.

No Man Can Be Explained By His Personal History, Least Of All A Poet.

I Think Joy Is Just As Instructive As Pain, And I Like It Better. I Never Meant To Suffer Any More Than I Could Help; My Nature Was Meant For Happiness, A Daylight Art And Living.

A Novel Is Really Like A Symphony Where Instrument After Instrument Has To Come In At Its Own Time, And No Other.

There Seems To Be A Kind Of Order In The Universe…in The Movement Of The Stars And The Turning Of The Earth And The Changing Of The Seasons. But Human Life Is Almost Pure Chaos. Everyone Takes His Stance, Asserts His Own Right And Feelings, Mistaking The Motives Of Others, And His Own.

I Was Right Not To Be Afraid Of Any Thief But Myself, Who Will End By Leaving Me Nothing.