The Artist Who Really Loves People Loves

I Realize More And More How Instinctively Pessimistic I Am Of All Human Kindness -- Since I Am Always So Bowled Over By It -- And Am Never Surprised By Injustice, Malice Or Personal Attack.

The Human Comedy Is Always Tragic, But Since Its Ingredients Are Always The Same - Dupe, Fox, Straight, Like Burlesque Skits - The Repetition Through The Ages Is Comedy.

A Novel Must Be A Rich Forest Known At The Start Only By Instinct.

Rage Swept Over Her At Being Young, Young And Little, As If Some Evil Fairy Had Put That Spell On Her. Why Must You Be Locked Up In This Dreadful Cage Of Childhood For Twenty Or A Hundred Years? Nothing In Life Was Possible Unless You Were Old And Rich, Until Then You Were Only Small And Futile Before Your Tormentors, Desperately Waiting For The Release That Only Years Could Bring.

An Evening Up On The Empire State Roof-the Strangest Experience. The Huge Tomb In Steel And Glass, The Ride To The 84th Floor And There, Under The Clouds, A Hawaiian String Quartet, Lounge, Concessions And, A Thousand Feet Below, New York-a Garden Of Golden Lights Winking On And Off, Automobiles, Trucks Winding In And Out, And Not A Sound. All As Silent As A Dead City-and It Looks Adagio Down There.