James Branch Cabell

As I bend over the desk about my writing I am crouched before Aesred in something like an attitude of supplication: whensoever I look up from the typewriter keys, and over the top of my reading glasses so that I may quite clearly see my chaperon, I fidget yet a little more under her calm but uncordial gaze.

With Elinor Wylie the poet—I mean, with the poet who wrote in verse—I plan no traffic. I can find in her verses nothing very remarkable, but then that has for many years been my attitude toward everyone's verses, all the long way from Hesiod's and Pindar's to Mr. Edgar Guest's and my own.