Green Leaves On A Dead

Life Is A Maze In Which We Take The Wrong Turning Before We Have Learned To Walk.

A Writer Is In Danger Of Allowing His Talent To Dull Who Lets More Than A Year Go Past Without Finding Himself In His Rightful Place Of Composition, The Small Single Unluxurious Retreat Of The Twentieth Century, The Hotel Bedroom.

Youth Is A Period Of Missed Opportunities.

It Is After Creation, In The Elation Of Success, Or The Gloom Of Failure, That Love Becomes Essential.

Carelessness Is Not Fatal To Journalism, Nor Are Cliches, For The Eye Rests Lightly On Them. But What Is Intended To Be Read Once Can Seldom Be Read More Than Once; A Journalist Has To Accept The Fact That His Work, By Its Very Todayness, Is Excluded From Any Share In Tomorrow.