If a writer … I’ll start again. If an author gives snappy advice — even if this author is, however popular, not entirely without intelligence and has published many, many novels under the name Stephen King and is in fact named Stephen King, and even if this writer Stephen King cribbed the advice off Eudora Welty, only after Miss Welty had stolen it from William Faulkner, whom she knew personally and who in turn had pinched it either from Anton Chekhov or from Arthur Quiller-Couch, but particularly if, unlikely as this seems, he, that is, Faulkner, got it from Quiller-Couch, and especially if Quiller-Couch was, beyond any reasonable suspicion, the original source, and hardly less so if this advice was first disseminated to the public (no doubt by Quiller-Couch, though he, too, may well have been paraphrasing from the extemporaneous, not to say pre-lubricrated, drollery of Oscar Wilde) on a Wednesday in January of 1914, exactly five months to the day before that year would suddenly prove to be, following the more or less simultaneous deaths of Sophie Marie Franziska Antonia Ignatia Alberta von Hohenberg and her husband, among the worst in modern history — ignore the advice and, moreover, don’t just ignore it but do the opposite, such that if the advice is something like, let’s say, “Kill your darlings,” then by all means save them. Kill everything else.