[on Writing:] The Most Egotistic Of Occupations,

Among The Many Problems Which Beset The Novelist, Not The Least Weighty Is The Choice Of The Moment At Which To Begin His Novel.

I Just Miss You, In A Quite Simple Desperate Human Way. Oh My Dear, I Can’t Be Clever And Stand-offish With You: I Love You Too Much For That. Too Truly.you Have No Idea How Stand-offish I Can Be With People I Don’t Love. I Have Brought It To A Fine Art. But You Have Broken Down My Defences. And I Don’t Really Resent It.

The Public, As A Whole, Finds Reassurance In Longevity, And, After The Necessary Interlude Of Reaction, Is Disposed To Recognize Extreme Old Age As A Sign Of Excellence. The Long-liver Has Triumphed Over At Least One Of Man's Initial Handicaps: The Brevity Of Life.

There Are No Signposts In The Sea.

It Is No Good My Telling You. One Never Believes Other People's Experiencem And One Is Only Very Gradually Convinced By One's Own.