Human sympathy has its limits.
He began as a minor imitator of Fitzgerald, wrote a novel in the late twenties which won a prize, became dissatisfied with his work, stopped writing for a period of years. When he came back it was to...
I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.
She wanted to know what American writers I liked. Hawthorne, Henry James, Emily Dickinson… No, living. Ah, well, hmm, let's see: how difficult, the rival factor being what it is, for a contemporary au...
It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.
My whole theory of writing I can sum up in one sentence. An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmasters of ever afterward.