Ireland Is A Great Country To Die

Mr. [aldous] Huxley Has Been The Alarming Young Man For A Long Time, A Sort Of Perpetual Clever Nephew Who Can Be Relied On To Flutter The Lunch Party. Whatever Will He Say Next? How Does He Think Of Those Things? He Has Been Deplored Once Or Twice, But Feeling Is In His Favor: He Is Steadily Read. He Is At Once The Truly Clever Person And The Stupid Person's Idea Of The Clever Person; He Is Expected To Be Relentless, To Administer Intellectual Shocks.

Memory Is To Love What The Saucer Is To The Cup.

Art Is For [the Irish] Inseparable From Artifice: Of That, The Theatre Is The Home. Possibly, It Was England Made Me A Novelist.

Yes, Writing A Novel, My Boy, Is Like Driving Pigs To Market - You Have One Of Them Making A Bolt Down The Wrong Lane; Another Won't Get Over The Right Stile.

Without Fiction, Either Life Would Be Insufficient Or The Winds From The North Would Blow Too Cold.