Others

The hardest thing about writing, in a sense, is not writing. I mean, the sentence is not intended to show you off, you know. It is not supposed to be “Look at me!” “Look, no hands!” It’s supposed to be a pipeline between the reader and you. One condition of the sentence is to write so well that no one notices that you’re writing.

A strict and succinct style is that, where you can take away nothing without loss, and that loss to be manifest.

A good style must, first of all, be clear. It must not be mean or above the dignity of the subject. It must be appropriate.

A good style should show no sign of effort. What is written should seem a happy accident.

I don’t know enough words to have a style; I know, at the most, fifteen adjectives.

Altogether, the style of a writer is a faithful representative of his mind; therefore, if any man wish to write a clear style, let him be first clear in his thoughts; and if any man would write in a noble style, let him first possess a noble soul.

What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure.

The language must be careful and must appear effortless. It must not sweat. It must suggest and be provocative at the same time.

You become a good writer just as you become a good joiner: by planing down your sentences.

The greatest thing in style is to have command of metaphor.

A good stylist should have narcissistic enjoyment as he works. He must be able to objectivize his work to such an extent that he catches himself feeling envious and has to jog his memory to find that he is himself the creator. In short, he must display that highest degree of objectivity which the world calls vanity.

Clear your mind of cant.

Have something to say and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret of style.

Every writer’s assumption is that he is as other human beings are, and that they are more or less as he is. There’s a principle of psychic unity. [Writing] was not meant to be an occult operation; it was not meant to be an esoteric secret.

Make it new.

The secret of play-writing can be given in two maxims: stick to the point, and, whenever you can, cut.

T HE BEST ADVICE on writing I’ve ever received: Miss Stein said, “The way to say it is to say it.”

Action is eloquence.

The less one feels a thing, the more likely one is to express it as it really is.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.

One of the amusements of being old is that I have no illusions about my literary position. I have been taken very seriously, but I have also seen essays by clever young men on contemporary fiction who would never think of considering me. I no longer mind what people think. On the whole, I have done what I set out to do. Now my age makes everyone take me very seriously. If you are a writer, live a long time. I have found that longevity counts more than talent.

Find what gave you emotion; what the action was that gave you excitement. Then write it down making it clear so that the reader can see it too. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration, and the Baroque is over.

Rely on the sudden erection of your small dorsal hairs.

Just get the right syllable in the proper place.