I Couldn't Have Thought Of Her More.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

Sweet Are The Thoughts That Savor Of Content: The Quiet Mind Is Richer Than A Crown.

The Subject Of A Novel Is Not The Plot. Who Remembers What Happened To Lucien De Rebempre In The End?

You Cannot Conceive, Nor Can I, Of The Appalling Strangeness Of The Mercy Of God.

Happiness Is Never Really So Welcome As Changelessness.