My Novels Are All Ideas.

When We Think About The Present, We Veer Wildly Between The Belief In Chance And The Evidence In Favour Of Determinism. When We Think About The Past, However, It Seems Obvious That Everything Happened In The Way That It Was Intended.

Now Abideth Beauty, Truth, And Intensity; But The Greatest Of These Is Intensity.

The Triumph Of Vegetation Is Total.

This Progressive Effacement Of Human Relationships Is Not Without Certain Problems For The Novel. How, In Point Of Fact, Would One Handle The Narration Of Those Unbridled Passions, Stretching Over Many Years, And At Times Making Their Effect Felt On Several Generations? We’re A Long Way From Wuthering Heights, To Say The Least. The Novel Form Is Not Conceived For Depicting Indifference Or Nothingness; A Flatter, More Terse, And Dreary Discourse Would Need To Be Invented.

Life Is Painful And Disappointing. It Is Useless, Therefore, To Write New Realistic Novels. We Generally Know Where We Stand In Relation To Reality And Don’t Care To Know Any More.