Hate Is A Lack Of Imagination.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days.

In The End There Is No Desire So Deep As The Simple Desire For Companionship.

It Is The Storytellers Task To Elicit Sympathy And A Measure Of Understanding For Those Who Lie Outside The Boundaries Of State Approval.

One's Life Is More Formed, I Sometimes Think, By Books Than By Human Beings: It Is Out Of Books One Learns About Love And Pain At Second Hand. Even If We Have The Happy Chance To Fall In Love, It Is Because We Have Been Conditioned By What We Have Read, And If I Had Never Known Love At All, Perhaps It Was Because My Father's Library Had Not Contained The Right Books.

What Have We All Got To Expect That We Allow Ourselves To Be So Lined With Disappointment?