Give The People A New Word And

Oh, The Germans Classify, But The French Arrange.

Whatever Is Felt Upon The Page Without Being Specifically Named There — That, One Might Say, Is Created.

This Is Reality, Whether You Like It Or Not--all Those Frivolities Of Summer, The Light And Shadow, The Living Mask Of Green That Trembled Over Everything, They Were Lies, And This Is What Was Underneath. This Is The Truth.

So Long As A Novelist Works Selfishly For The Pleasure Of Creating Character And Situation Corresponding To His Own Illusions, Ideals And Intuitions, He Will Always Produce Something Worth While And Natural. Directly He Takes Himself Too Seriously And Begins For The Alleged Benefit Of Humanity An Elaborate Dissection Of Complexes, He Evolves A Book That Is More Ridiculous And Tiresome Than The Most Conventional Cold Cream Girl Novel Of Yesterday.

The Emptiness Was Intense, Like The Stillness In A Great Factory When The Machinery Stops Running.