Does One Eat Peanuts At

Writers Of Novels Are So Busy Being Solitary That They Haven't Time To Meet One Another. But Then, A Writer Learns Nothing From A Writer, Conversationally. If A Writer Has Anything Witty, Profound Or Quotable To Say He Doesn't Say It. He's No Fool. He Writes It.

Any Piece Of Furniture, I Don't Care How Beautiful It Is, Has Got To Be Lived With, And Kicked About, And Rubbed Down, And Mistreated By Servants, And Repolished, And Knocked Around And Dusted And Sat On Or Slept In Or Eaten Off Of Before It Develops Its Real Character ... A Good Deal Like Human Beings.

To Be Alive Is A Fine Thing. It Is The Finest Thing In The World, Though Hazardous. It Is A Unique Thing. It Happens Only Once In A Lifetime. To Be Alive, To Know Consciously That You Are Alive, And To Relish That Knowledge -- This Is A Kind Of Magic. Or It May Be A Kind Of Madness, Exhilarating But Harmless.

Science Had Married The Wilderness And Was Taming The Savage Shrew.

Wasn't Marriage, Like Life, Unstimulating And Unprofitable And Somewhat Empty When Too Well Ordered And Protected And Guarded. Wasn't It Finer, More Splendid, More Nourishing, When It Was, Like Life Itself, A Mixture Of The Sordid And The Magnificent; Of Mud And Stars; Of Earth And Flowers; Of Love And Hate And Laughter And Tears And Ugliness And Beauty And Hurt.