...as for helping me in the outside world, the Convent taught me only that if you spit on a pencil eraser, it will erase ink.
It was written without fear and without research.
Her mind lives tidily, apart from cold and noise and pain. And bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.
Art is a form of catharsis.
And where does she find them?
On lady novelists: As artists they're rot, but as providers they're oil wells; they gush. Norris said she never wrote a story unless it was fun to do. I understand Ferber whistles at her typewriter.