I hate almost all rich people, but I think I’d be darling at it.
I hate writing, I love having written.
I won't telephone him. I'll never telephone him again as long as I live. He'll rot in hell, before I'll call him up. You don't have to give me strength, God; I have it myself. If he wanted me, he could get me. He knows where I am. He knows I'm waiting here. He's so sure of me, so sure. I wonder why they hate you, as soon as they are sure of you.
It's easier to write about those you hate — just as it's easier to criticize a bad play or a bad book.
Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
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