Nature, not content with denying to Mr — the faculty of thought, has endowed him with the faculty of writing.
The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away, The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers. Pass me the can, lad; there’s an end of May.
Dying is for fools. I’m proud of what I created. I exposed people to magic. I exposed people to things they would never see in their normal lives.
I always write well in New York.
For a creative writer possession of the truth is less important than emotional sincerity.