Every One Suspects Himself Of At Least

It Was Always The Becoming He Dreamed Of, Never The Being.

She Was A Faded But Still Lovely Woman Of Twenty-seven.

When The First-rate Author Wants An Exquisite Heroine Or A Lovely Morning, He Finds That All The Superlatives Have Been Worn Shoddy By His Inferiors. It Should Be A Rule That Bad Writers Must Start With Plain Heroines And Ordinary Mornings, And, If They Are Able, Work Up To Something Better.

But I Always Felt That I'd Rather Be Provincial Hot-tamale Than Soup Without Seasoning.

The Loneliest Moment In Someone’s Life Is When They Are Watching Their Whole World Fall Apart, And All They Can Do Is Stare Blankly.