I Do Like Italian Graves; They Look

As A Novelist, I Cannot Occupy Myself With "characters," Or At Any Rate Central Ones, Who Lack Panache, In One Or Another Sense, Who Would Be Incapable Of A Major Action Or A Major Passion, Or Who Have Not A Touch Of The Ambiguity, The Ultimate Unaccountability, The Enlarging Mistiness Of Persons "in History." History, As More Austerely I Now Know It, Is Not Romantic. But I Am.

All Good Dialogue Perhaps Deals With Something Unprecedented.

Intimacies Between Women Often Go Backwards, Beginning In Revelations And Ending In Small Talk.

In Big Houses In Which Things Are Done Properly, There Is Always The Religious Element. The Diurnal Cycle Is Observed With More Feeling When There Are Servants To Do The Work.

There Is No Doubt That Sorrow Brings One Down In The World. The Aristocratic Privilege Of Silence Belongs, You Soon Find Out, To Only The Happy State- Or, At Least, To The State When Pain Keeps Within Bounds.