For Plain And Fancy Worrying, Give Me

We Were Going To The Long Field Which Today Looked Like An Ocean, Although I Had Never Seen An Ocean; The Grass Was Moving In The Breeze And The Cloud Shadows Passed Back And Forth And The Trees In The Distance Moved.

It Was A House Without Kindness, Never Meant To Be Lived In, Not A Fit Place For People Or For Love Or For Hope. Exorcism Cannot Alter The Countenance Of A House ; Hill House Would Stay As It Was Until It Was Destroyed.

I'm Going To Put Death In All Their Food And Watch Them Die.

I Cannot Find Any Patience For Those People Who Believe That You Start Writing When You Sit Down At Your Desk And Pick Up Your Pen And Finish Writing When You Put Down Your Pen Again; A Writer Is Always Writing, Seeing Everything Through A Thin Mist Of Words, Fitting Swift Little Descriptions To Everything He Sees, Always Noticing. Just As I Believe That A Painter Cannot Sit Down To His Morning Coffee Without Noticing What Color It Is, So A Writer Cannot See An Odd Little Gesture Without Putting A Verbal Description To It, And Ought Never To Let A Moment Go By Undescribed.

In The Country Of The Story The Writer Is King.