A Dance To The Music Of Time.

Slowly, But Very Deliberately, The Brooding Edifice Of Seduction, Creaking And Incongruous, Came Into Being, A Vast Heath Robinson Mechanism, Dually Controlled By Them And Lumbering Gloomily Down Vistas Of Triteness. With A Sort Of Heavy-fisted Dexterity The Mutually Adapted Emotions Of Each Of Them Became Synchronized, Until The Unavoidable Anti-climax Was At Hand.

Self-love Seems So Often Unrequited.

Books Do Furnish A Room.

Writing Is A Combination Of Intangible Creative Fantasy And Appallingly Hard Work.

Writing Is Above All A Question Of Instinct.