Maybe Any Action Becomes Cowardly Once You

For Both Writer And Reader, The Novel Is A Lonely, Physically Inactive Affair. Only The Imagination Races.

I Am For The Ones Who Represent Sense, And So Was Jane Austen.

This Grossly Advertised Wonder [venice], This Gold Idol With Clay Feet, This Trompe-l'oeil, This Painted Deception, This Cliche-what Intelligent Iconoclast Could Fail To Experience A Destructive Impulse In Her Presence?

I'm Afraid I'm Not Sufficiently Inhibited About The Things That Other Women Are Inhibited About For Me. They Feel That You've Given Away Trade Secrets.

It [socialism] Was A Kind Of Political Hockey Played By Big, Gaunt, Dyspeptic Girls In Pants.