Life May Take Away Happiness. But It

... The Novel, As A Living Force, If Not As A Work Of Art, Owes An Incalculable Debt To What We Call, Mistakenly, The New Psychology, To Freud, In His Earlier Interpretations, And More Truly, I Think, To Jung.

Doesn't All Experience Crumble In The End To Mere Literary Material?

. . . Every Tree Near Our House Had A Name Of Its Own And A Special Identity. This Was The Beginning Of My Love For Natural Things, For Earth And Sky, For Roads And Fields And Woods, For Trees And Grass And Flowers; A Love Which Has Been Second Only To My Sense Of Enduring Kinship With Birds And Animals, And All Inarticulate Creatures.

It Is Wiser To Be Conventionally Immoral Than Unconventionally Moral. It Isn't The Immorality They Object To, But The Originality.

I Would Write Of The Universal, Not The Provincial, In Human Nature.... I Would Write Of Characters, Not Of Characteristics.