Giving The Utmost Of Herself To Three

I Am Persuaded That Not A Novel In Ten Thousand Is Of Any Use To A Child To Fit Him For Life. The Most Are Of Use Only To Unfit Him -- To Blunt His Senses And Infect Him With The Writers' Poor Silly Sentiments. Nine Out Of Ten Novelists Deserve To Be Prosecuted Under An Adulterated Emotions Act.

In Europe, War Is A Disease Which Has Been In The Family For Generations: No One Is Surprised When It Makes Another Leap. Even The Patient Only Attends To It With Part Of His Mind.

An Intelligent Man Or Woman Willing To Make A Career Of Reviewing Fiction Is Hard To Come By ... And The Temporaries Do The Work Cheaply. Moreover, Continuity May Be Got At The Expense Of Intellectual Arthritis; A Reviewer Who Has Been At His Grisly Task For Half A Lifetime May Stiffen Into Prejudices Of Every Sort, And Become Too Anchylosed To Do Better Than Turn His Back To A New Wave When It Rushes Down On Him.

An Animal Is Not Cruel; It Lives Wholly In The Instant Leap On Its Prey, In The Present Taste Of Marrow Or Blood. Cruelty Begins With The Memory, And The Pleasures Of The Memory Are Impure; They Draw Their Strength Along Levels Where No Sun Has Reached.

Inevitably, The Flood Of Literary Pornography Loosed On Us Is Dulling Our Reactions Of Surprise Or Shock. Its Writers Are Forced To Raise The Ante, To Provide Stronger And Stronger Stimulants. Or Try To Provide Them, Since Both The Manner, The Naming Of Parts And The Few Inexpressive Four-letter Words, And The Matter, Are Narrowly Limited.