Style Is A Magic Wand, And Turns

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

Only Those Who Get Into Scrapes With Their Eyes Open Can Find The Safe Way Out.

Growing Old Is Not A Gradual Decline, But A Series Of Drops, Full Of Sorrow, From One Ledge To Another Below It.

So, I Never Lose A Sense Of The Whimsical And Perilous Charm Of Daily Life, With Its Meetings And Words And Accidents.

Fine Writers Should Split Hairs Together, And Sit Side By Side, Like Friendly Apes, To Pick The Fleas From Each Others Fur.