It Was Like Having A Box Of

With A Novel, Which Takes Perhaps Years To Write, The Author Is Not The Same Man He Was At The End Of The Book As He Was At The Beginning. It Is Not Only That His Characters Have Developed-he Has Developed With Them, And This Nearly Always Gives A Sense Of Roughness To The Work: A Novel Can Seldom Have The Sense Of Perfection Which You Find In Chekhov's Story, The Lady With The Dog.

Have You Seen A Room From Which Faith Has Gone? Like A Marriage From Which Love Has Gone. And Patience, Patience Everywhere Like A Fog.

Indifference And Pride Look Very Much Alike, And He Probably Thought I Was Proud.

It Seemed To Scobie That Life Was Immeasurably Long. Couldn’t The Test Of Man Have Been Carried Out In Fewer Years? Couldn’t We Have Committed Our First Major Sin At Seven, Have Ruined Ourselves For Love Or Hate At Ten, Have Clutched At Redemption On A Fifteen-year-old Deathbed?

Ordinary Life Goes On--that Has Saved Many A Man's Reason.