For Awhile After You Quit

Everything That Begins, Begins With Blood.

But He Hated To Be Sober. It Made Him Conscious Of The People Around Him, Of That Air Of Struggle, Of Greedy Ambition, Of Hope More Sordid Than Despair, Of Incessant Passage Up Or Down.

His Was A Great Sin Who First Invented Consciousness. Let Us Lose It For A Few Hours.

There Was Never A Good Biography Of A Good Novelist. There Couldn't Be. He Is Too Many People If He's Any Good.

Every Author Ought To Write Every Book As If He Were Going To Be Beheaded The Day He Finished It.