We Cannot Get Grace From

She Was A Handsome Woman Of Forty-five And Would Remain So For Many Years.

We Plan, We Toil, We Suffer - In The Hope Of What? A Camel-load Of Idol's Eyes? The Title Deeds Of Radio City? The Empire Of Asia? A Trip To The Moon? No, No, No, No. Simply To Wake Just In Time To Smell Coffee And Bacon And Eggs.

To Say That These Men Paid Their Shillings To Watch Twenty-two Hirelings Kick A Ball Is Merely To Say That A Violin Is Wood And Catgut, That Hamlet Is So Much Paper And Ink.

There Is Romance, The Genuine Glinting Stuff, In Typewriters, And Not Merely In Their Development From Clumsy Giants Into Agile Dwarfs, But In The History Of Their Manufacture, Which Is Filled With Raids, Battles, Lonely Pioneers, Great Gambles, Hope, Fear, Despair, Triumph. If Some Of Our Novels Could Be Written By The Typewriters Instead Of On Them, How Much Better They Would Be.

If You Are A Genius, You'll Make Your Own Rules, But If Not - And The Odds Are Against It - Go To Your Desk No Matter What Your Mood, Face The Icy Challenge Of The Paper - Write.