One Can Live In The Shadow Of

Style Is The Thing That's Always A Bit Phony, And At The Same Time You Cannot Write Without Style.

Mr. [aldous] Huxley Has Been The Alarming Young Man For A Long Time, A Sort Of Perpetual Clever Nephew Who Can Be Relied On To Flutter The Lunch Party. Whatever Will He Say Next? How Does He Think Of Those Things? He Has Been Deplored Once Or Twice, But Feeling Is In His Favor: He Is Steadily Read. He Is At Once The Truly Clever Person And The Stupid Person's Idea Of The Clever Person; He Is Expected To Be Relentless, To Administer Intellectual Shocks.

Everything Is Very Quiet, The Streets Are Never Crowded, And The People One Dislikes Are Out Of Town.

... It Appears To Me That Problems, Inherent In Any Writing, Loom Unduly Large When One Looks Ahead. Though Nothing Is Easy, Little Is Quite Impossible.

Temperamentally, The Writer Exists On Happenings, On Contacts, Conflicts, Action And Reaction, Speed, Pressure, Tension. Were He Acontemplative Purely, He Would Not Write.