All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories. What

So Much Of Life [is] A Putting-off Of Unhappiness For Another Time. Nothing [is] Ever Lost By Delay.

Love Taught Me That Your Honour Did But Jest.

So Long As One Is Happy One Can Endure Any Discipline: It Was Unhappiness That Broke Down The Habits Of Work.

Time Has Its Revenges, But Revenge Seems So Often Sour. Wouldn’t We All Do Better Not Trying To Understand, Accepting The Fact That No Human Being Will Ever Understand Another, Not A Wife With A Husband, Nor A Parent A Child? Perhaps That’s Why Men Have Invented God – A Being Capable Of Understanding.

Our Heroes Are Simple: They Are Brave, They Tell The Truth, They Are Good Swordsmen And They Are Never In The Long Run Really Defeated. That Is Why No Later Books Satisfy Us Like Those Which Were Read To Us In Childhood - For Those Promised A World Of Great Simplicity Of Which We Knew The Rules, But The Later Books Are Complicated And Contradictory With Experience; They Are Formed Out Of Our Own Disappointing Memories.