I know that no reader ever asks a question. A writer must force his favors upon his readers.
Men are jealous of every woman, even when they don’t have the slightest interest in her themselves.
No one has the right to enter literature without fresh new ideas. We’ve got too many dexterous drudges as it is.
The face of the dead man was concealed, of course, our customs not being those of the south, where corpses are carried to the grave in open coffins, that they might – one last time before slipping into the pit – be warmed by the light of the sun.
