Two daiquiris withdrew into a corner of a gorgeous room and one told the other a lie.

Them lady poets must not marry, pal.

That is our ‘pointed task. Love & die.

I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam; that love. Prattle of children powers me home, my heart claps like the swan's under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.

Bats have no bankers and they do not drink and cannot be arrested and pay no tax and, in general, bats have it made.

So if I were talking to a young writer, I would recommend the cultivation of extreme indifference to both praise and blame because praise will lead you to vanity, and blame will lead you to self-pity, and both are bad for writers.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.