Every Word She Writes Is A Lie,

For Both Writer And Reader, The Novel Is A Lonely, Physically Inactive Affair. Only The Imagination Races.

... The Average Catholic Perceives No Connection Between Religion And Morality, Unless It Is A Question Of Someone Else's Morality.

Venice Is The Worlds Unconscious: A Misers Glittering Hoard, Guarded By A Beast Whose Eyes Are Made Of White Agate, And By A Saint Who Is Really A Prince Who Has Just Slain A Dragon.

I Suppose Everyone Continues To Be Interested In The Quest For The Self, But What You Feel When You're Older, I Think, Is That - How To Express This - You Really Must Make The Self.

What I Really Do Is Take Real Plums And Put Them In An Imaginary Cake.