If you write one story, it may be bad; if you write a hundred, you have the odds in your favor.

I loved her. I still love her, though I curse her in my sleep, so nearly one are love and hate, the two most powerful and devasting emotions that control man, nations, life.

Death, only, renders hope futile.

Could it be that there were other things more desirable than cold logic and undefiled brain power?

I could write stories just as rotten.

In one respect at least the Martians are a happy people, they have no lawyers.

Fortunate indeed are those in which there is combined a little good and a little bad, a little knowledge of many things outside their own callings, a capacity for love and a capacity for hate, for such as these can look with tolerance upon all, unbiased by the egotism of him whose head is so heavy on one side that all his brains run to that point.