Self-love Seems So Often Unrequited.

He Gave Me A Look Of Great Contempt; As I Supposed, For Venturing, Even By Implication, To Draw A Parallel Between A Lack Of Affluence That Might, Literally, Affect My Purchase Of Rare Vintages, And A Figure Of Speech Intended Delicately To Convey His Own Dire Want For The Bare Necessities Of Life. He Remained Silent For Several Seconds, As If Trying To Make Up His Mind Whether He Could Ever Bring Himself To Speak To Me Again; And Then Said Gruffly: 'i've Got To Go Now.'

Literature Illuminates Life Only For Those To Whom Books Are A Necessity.

Self-pity Is Essentially Humorless, Devoid Of That Lightness Of Touch Which Gives Understanding Of Life.

Writing Is Above All A Question Of Instinct.

I Get A Warm Feeling Among My Books.