The Most Fatal Illusion Is

Nothing A Man Writes Can Please Him As Profoundly As Something He Does With His Back, Shoulders And Hands. For Writing Is An Artificial Activity. It Is A Lonely And Private Substitute For Conversation.

Writing Is Not An End In Itself But Life Transmuted Into Radiance.

In The Ideal Sense Nothing Is Uninteresting; There Are Only Uninterested People.

There Is No Joy So Great As That Of Reporting That A Good Play Has Come To Town.

It Seems Not To Have Been Written. It Is The Quintessence Of Life. It Is The Basic Truth.