A Library Goes On As

Although I Am Almost Illiterate Mathematically, I Grasped Very Early In Life That Any One Who Can Count To Ten Can Count Upward Indefinitely If He Is Fool Enough To Do So.

I Saw Corpses, And Grew Used To Their Unimportant Look, For A Dead Man Without Any Of The Panoply Of Death Is A Desperately Insignificant Object.

Many Authors Write Like Amateur Blacksmiths Making Their First Horseshoe; The Clank Of The Anvil, The Stench Of The Scorched Leather Apron, The Sparks And The Cursing Are Palpable, And This Appeals To Those Who Rank "sincerity" Very High. Nabokov Is More Like A Master Swordsmith Making A Fine Blade; Nothing Is Amiss, Nothing Is Too Much, There Is No Fuss, And The Finished Product Must Be Handled With Great Care, Or It Will Cut You Badly.

Inactivity And Deprivation Of All Accustomed Stimulus Is Not Rest; It Is A Preparation For The Tomb

Anybody Who Has Had Experience Of Poetesses Knows That They May Forgive A Punch On The Jaw, But Never A Suggestion That They Would Be Wiser To Give Up Versifying.