The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.
There are few sorrows in which a good income is of no avail.
Style is a magic wand, and turns everything to gold that it touches.
We should nourish our souls on the dew of Poesy, and manure them as well.
But why wasn't I born, alas, in an age of Adjectives; why can one no longer write of silver-shedding Tears and moon-tailed Peacocks, of eloquent Death, of the Negro and star-enameled Night?
Growing old is not a gradual decline, but a series of drops, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another below it.