Every Novel Is A Biography. Well, Then,

Latin, As We All Know, Ultimately Broke Down Into Spanish, Italian, French, And So On. One Wonders Whether There Will Be An Imperial Parallel With English Breaking Down Into, Shall We Say, North American, European, Australian, And So On. On The Other Hand, There Is This Immense, Inward-driving Influence Of Radio And Television That Is Bringing Us All Back Together. One Could Say It's A Fight Between The Two: A Fight Between Regionalism And The Standardization Through Communication.

Among The Virtues And Vices That Make Up The British Character, We Have One Vice, At Least, That Americans Ought To View With Sympathy. For They Appear To Be The Only People Who Share It With Us. I Mean Our Worship Of The Antique. I Do Not Refer To Beauty Or Even Historical Association. I Refer To Age, To A Quantity Of Years.

His Mind Was Crowded With Memories; Memories Of The Knowledge That Had Come To Them When They Closed In On The Struggling Pig, Knowledge That They Had Outwitted A Living Thing, Imposed Their Will Upon It, Taken Away Its Life Like A Long Satisfying Drink.

We Have A Disharmony In Our Natures. We Cannot Live Together Without Injuring Each Other.

Novelists Do Not Write As Birds Sing, By The Push Of Nature. It Is Part Of The Job That There Should Be Much Routine And Some Daily Stuff On The Level Of Carpentry.