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.

Is This The Final Treachery Of Time, That The Old Become A Burden Upon The Young?

The Crown Of Life Is Neither Happiness Nor Annihilation; It Is Understanding.

Remorse ... Is One Of The Many Afflictions For Which Time Finds A Cure.

But To Write - That Is Grief And Labor; And To Read What One Has Written - How Unlike The Story As One Saw It; How Dull, How Spirtless - That Is Enough To Send One Weeping To Bed.