It Is The Fear Of Being As

Writing Offers Fairly Large Rewards To A Few Successful People, But The Rewards Come Late, And Most Writers Are Failures.

They Tell You That You'll Lose Your Mind When You Grow Older. What They Don't Tell You Is That You Won't Miss It Very Much.

Put Cotton In Your Ears And Pebbles In Your Shoes. Pull On Rubber Gloves. Smear Vaseline Over Your Glasses, And There You Have It: Instant Old Age.

First New York Was A Sort Of Provincial Capital, Bigger And Richer Than Manchester Or Marseilles, But Not Much Different In Its Essential Spirit. Then, After The War, It Became One Among Half A Dozen World Cities. Today It Has The Appearance Of Standing Alone, As The Center Of Culture In The Part Of The World That Still Tries To Be Civilized.

Going Back To Hemingway's Work After Several Years Is Like Going Back To A Brook Where You Had Often Fished And Finding The Woods As Deep And Cool As They Used To Be.