The Test Of A Writer Is Whether

She Was The Music Heard Faintly On The Edge Of Sound.

I'm A Very Smart Guy. I Haven't A Feeling Or A Scruple In The World. All I Have The Itch For Is Money. I Am So Money Greedy That For Twenty-five Bucks A Day And Expenses, Mostly Gasoline And Whisky, I Do My Thinking Myself, What There Is Of It; I Risk My Whole Future, The Hatred Of The Cops . . . I Dodge Bullets And Eat Saps, And Say Thank You Very Much, If You Have Any More Trouble, I Hope You'll Think Of Me, I'll Just Leave One Of My Cards In Case Anything Comes Up.

I'm Killing Time And It's Dying Hard.

An Artist Cannot Deny Art, Nor Would He Want To. A Lover Cannot Deny Love.

But Nothing Seems To Do Any Good.