Whatever you have lived, you can write & by hard work & a genuine apprenticeship, you can learn to write well; but what you have not lived you cannot write, you can only pretend to write it...
Words are only painted fire, a look is the fire itself. She gave that look, and carried it away to the treasury of heaven, where all things that are divine belong.
I don't like to commit myself about heaven and hell - you see, I have friends in both places.
In the South the war is what A.D. is elsewhere; they date from it.
Comparison is the death of joy.