Books Do Furnish A Room.

I Was Impressed For The Ten Thousandth Time By The Fact That Literature Illuminates Life Only For Those To Whom Books Are A Necessity. Books Are Unconvertible Assets, To Be Passed On Only To Those Who Possess Them Already.

Dinner At The Huntercombes' Possessed Only Two Dramatic Features - The Wine Was A Farce And The Food A Tragedy.

It Is Not What Happens To People That Is Significant, But What They Think Happens To Them.

The Whole Idea Of Interviews Is In Itself Absurd - One Cannot Answer Deep Questions About What One's Life Was Like - One Writes Novels About It.

He Gave Me A Look Of Great Contempt; As I Supposed, For Venturing, Even By Implication, To Draw A Parallel Between A Lack Of Affluence That Might, Literally, Affect My Purchase Of Rare Vintages, And A Figure Of Speech Intended Delicately To Convey His Own Dire Want For The Bare Necessities Of Life. He Remained Silent For Several Seconds, As If Trying To Make Up His Mind Whether He Could Ever Bring Himself To Speak To Me Again; And Then Said Gruffly: 'i've Got To Go Now.'