Americans Admire Success. Englishmen Admire

Some Friends Of Theirs Had Rented Their House For Several Months To An Interior Decorator. When They Returned, They Discovered That Their Entire Library Had Been Reorganized By Color And Size. Shortly Thereafter, The Decorator Met With A Fatal Automobile Accident. I Confess That When This Story Was Told, Everyone Around The Dinner Table Concurred That Justice Had Been Served.

It Has Long Been My Belief That Everyone's Library Contains An Odd Shelf. On This Shelf Rests A Small, Mysterious Completely Unrelated To The Rest Of The Library, Yet Which, Upon Closer Inspection, Reveals A Good Deal About Its Owner.

Muses Are Fickle, And Many A Writer, Peering Into The Voice, Has Escaped Paralysis By Ascribing The Creative Responsibility To A Talisman: A Lucky Charm, A Brand Of Paper, But Most Often A Writing Instrument. Am I Writing Well? Thank My Pen. Am I Writing Badly? Don't Blame Me Blame My Pen. By Such Displacements Does The Fearful Imagination Defend Itself.

When I Write After Dark", Observed Cyril Connolly, "the Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose

If My Father Were Still Writing Essays, Every Full-grown 'girl' Would Probably Be Transformed Into A'woman'.