It Is Not That Death Comes, But

You Can't Change A Man, No-ways. By The Time His Mummy Turns Him Loose And He Takes Up With Some Innocent Woman And Marries Her, He's What He Is.

Magic Birds Were Dancing In The Mystic Marsh. The Grass Swayed With Them, And The Shallow Waters, And The Earth Fluttered Under Them. The Earth Was Dancing With The Cranes, And The Low Sun, And The Wind And Sky.

The Inferred Is Always More Effective Than The Obvious.

Hemingway, Damn His Soul, Makes Everything He Writes Terrifically Exciting (and Incidentally Makes All Us Second-raters Seem Positively Adolescent) By The Seemingly Simple Expedient Of The Iceberg Principle - Three-fourths Of The Substance Under The Surface. He Comes Closer That Way To Retaining The Magic Of The Original, Unexpressed Idea Or Emotion, Which Is Always More Stirring Than Any Words. But Just Try And Do It!

A Woman Has Got To Love A Bad Man Once Or Twice In Her Life, To Be Thankful For A Good One.