Nothing Mattered ... But Writing

A Child's Attitude Toward Everything Is An Artist's Attitude.

One Summer Evening In The Year 1848, Three Cardinals And A Missionary Were Dining Together In The Gardens Of A Villa In The Sabine Hills, Overlooking Rome.

Only The Stupid And The Phlegmatic Should Teach.

To Note An Artist's Limitations Is But To Define His Talent. A Reporter Can Write Equally Well About Everything That Is Presented To His View, But A Creative Writer Can Do His Best Only With What Lies Within The Range And Character Of His Deepest Sympathies.

He Domesticated And Developed The Native Wild Flowers. He Had One Hill-side Solidly Clad With That Low-growing Purple Verbena Which Mats Over The Hills Of New Mexico. It Was Like A Great Violet Velvet Mantle Thrown Down In The Sun; All The Shades That The Dyers And Weavers Of Italy And France Strove For Through Centuries, The Violet That Is Full Of Rose Colour And Is Yet Not Lavender; The Blue That Becomes Almost Pink And Then Retreats Again Into Sea-dark Purple—the True Episcopal Colour And Countless Variations Of It.