Why Haven't We Seventy Lives? One Is

What With The Reviews Of Critics, The Sarcasms Of One's Friends, The Reproaches Of One's Own Taste, There's Precious Little Peace After Publishing A Book.

I Am Much Perturbed By This Business Of Sickness. Our Bodies Seem So Easily To Leap Into The Saddle Where Our Minds Should Be. People Who Are Ill Become Changelings.

There's Never Been A Lack Of Men Willing To Die Bravely. The Trouble Is To Find A Few Able To Live Sensibly.

I Can't Think Why I Was Cursed With This Inordinate Desire To Write, If The High Gods Weren't Going To Give Me Some More Adquate Means Of Expressing Myself Than That Which My Present Pedestrian Prose Affords.

But Questioning Does Not Mean The End Of Loving, And Loving Does Not Mean The Abnegation Of Intelligence