Innocence Is A Kind Of Insanity

Like The Characters In Chekhov, They Have No Reserves -– You Learn The Most Intimate Secrets. You Get An Impression Of A World Peopled By Eccentrics, Of Odd Professions, Almost Incredible Stupidities, And, To Balance Them, Amazing Endurances.

He's Satisfied With Himself. If You Have A Soul You Can't Be Satisfied.

One Never Knows Enough About Characters In Real Life To Put Them Into Novels. One Gets Started And Then, Suddenly, One Can Not Remember What Toothpaste They Use; What Are Their Views On Interior Decoration, And One Is Stuck Utterly. No, Major Characters Emerge; Minor Ones May Be Photographed.

It's Strange How The Human Mind Swings Back And Forth, From One Extreme To Another. Does Truth Lie At Some Point Of The Pendulum's Swing, At A Point Where It Never Rests, Not In The Dull Perpendicular Mean Where It Dangles In The End Like A Windless Flag, But At An Angle, Nearer One Extreme Than Another? If Only A Miracle Could Stop The Pendulum At An Angle Of Sixty Degrees, One Would Believe The Truth Was There.

And When We Love Our Sin Then We Are Damned Indeed.