A Tragic Irony Of Life Is That

Idealism, That Gaudy Coloring Matter Of Passion, Fades When It Is Brought Beneath The Trenchant White Light Of Knowledge. Ideals, Like Mountains, Are Best At A Distance.

To Seize The Flying Thought Before It Escapes Us Is Our Only Touch With Reality.

Insolent Youth Rides, Now, In The Whirlwind. For Those Modern Iconoclasts Who Are Without Culture Possess, Apparently, All The Courage.

For My Own Purpose, I Defined The Art Of Fiction As Experience Illuminated.

Although The Primitive In Art May Be Both Interesting And Impressive, As Portrayed In American Fiction It Is Conspicuous For Dullness Alone. Drab Persons Living Drab Lives, Observed By Drab Minds And Reported In Drab Writing.