When Young We Are Faithful To Individuals,

The True Function Of A Writer Is To Produce A Masterpiece And No Other Task Is Of Any Consequence.

Always Be Nice To Those Younger Than You, Because They Are The Ones Who Will Be Writing About You.

The Artist One Day Falls Through A Hole In The Brambles, And From That Moment He Is Following The Dark Rapids Of An Underground River Which May Sometimes Flow So Near To The Surface That The Laughing Picnic Parties Are Heard Above.

The River Of Truth Is Always Splitting Up Into Arms That Reunite. Islanded Between Them, The Inhabitants Argue For A Lifetime As To Which Is The Mainstream.

The Detective Story Itself Is In A Dilemma. It Is A Vein Which Is In Danger Of Being Worked Out, The Demand Is Constant, The Powers Of Supply Variable, And The Reader, With Each One He Absorbs, Grows A Little More Sophisticated And Harder To Please, While The Novelist, After Each One He Writes, Becomes A Little More Exhausted.