Perhaps We Had At Last Reached That

She Smiled At Him, With Longing. 'where Do You Live,' She Asked, 'and How Do I Get There?

This Is What Happened In Love. One Of You Cried A Lot And Then Both Of You Grew Sarcastic.

A Novel Is A Daily Labor Over A Period Of Years. A Novel Is A Job. But A Story Can Be Like A Mad, Lovely Visitor, With Whom You Spend A Rather Exciting Weekend.

Most Things Good For Writing Are Bad For Life.

Every Arrangement In Life Carried With It The Sadness, The Sentimental Shadow, Of Its Not Being Something Else, But Only Itself.