No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted.

Does anybody learn writing, or do they just touch someone who lets them see the power of the deleted word?

Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man.

The writer's greed is appalling. He wants, or seems to want, everything and practically everybody; in another sense, and at the same time, he needs no one at all.

Writers are really people who write books not because they are poor, but because they are dissatisfied with the books which they could buy but do not like.

Poets are sultans, if they had their will; For every author would his brother kill.

The writer's life seethes within but not without.

One hates an author that's all author-fellows In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows.

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade, just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

Considering the multitude of mortals that handle the pen in these days, and can mostly spell, and write without glaring violations of grammar, the question naturally arises: How is it, then, that no work proceeds from them, bearing any stamp of authenticity and permanence; of worth for more than one day?