The bad poet is a toady mimicking nature.

Genius, like truth, has a shabby and neglected mien.

What is most appalling in an F. Scott Fitzgerald book is that it is peopleless fiction: Fitzgerald writes about spectral, muscledsuits; dresses, hats, and sleeves which have some sort of vague, libidinous throb. These are plainly the product of sickness.

Narcissus never wrote well nor was a friend.

We are uneasy with an affectionate man, for we are positive he wants something of us, particularly our love.

Writing is conscience, scruple, and the farming of our ancestors.

There are men that are birds, and their raiment is trembling feathers, for they show their souls to everyone and everything that is ungentle or untutored or evil or mockery is as a rude stone cast at them, and they suffer all day long, or as Paul remarks they are slain every moment.