For People Who Live On

Jealousy Is No More Than Feeling Alone Against Smiling Enemies.

The Novelist's--any Writer's--object Is To Whittle Down His Meaning To The Exactest And Finest Possible Point. What, Of Course, Isfatal Is When He Does Not Know What He Does Mean: He Has No Point To Sharpen.

No One Of The Characters In My Novels Has Originated, So Far As I Know, In Real Life. If Anything, The Contrary Was The Case: Persons Playing A Part In My Life--the First Twenty Years Of It--had About Them Something Semi-fictitious.

Meeting People Unlike Oneself Does Not Enlarge One's Outlook; It Only Confirms One's Idea That One Is Unique.

Silences Can Be As Different As Sounds.