All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days.

Hate Is An Automatic Response To Fear, For Fear Humiliates.

A Major Character Has To Come Somehow Out Of The Unconscious.

Fun... Human Nature... Does No One Any Harm... Regular As Clockwork The Old Excuses Came Back Into The Alert, Sad And Dissatisfied Brain--nothing Ever Matched The Deep Excitement Of The Regular Desire. Men Always Failed You When It Came To The Act. She Might Just As Well Have Been To The Pictures.

Thought's A Luxury. Do You Think The Peasant Sits And Thinks Of God And Democracy When He Gets Inside His Mud Hut At Night?