[t]here Is No Greater Sign Of Innate

There Is, After All, No Pleasure Like That Given By A Woman Who Really Wants To See You.

People Think That Because A Novel's Invented, It Isn't True. Exactly The Reverse Is The Case. Biography And Memoirs Can Never Be Wholly True, Since They Cannot Include Every Conceivable Circumstance Of What Happened. The Novel Can Do That.

Slowly, But Very Deliberately, The Brooding Edifice Of Seduction, Creaking And Incongruous, Came Into Being, A Vast Heath Robinson Mechanism, Dually Controlled By Them And Lumbering Gloomily Down Vistas Of Triteness. With A Sort Of Heavy-fisted Dexterity The Mutually Adapted Emotions Of Each Of Them Became Synchronized, Until The Unavoidable Anti-climax Was At Hand.

You Have To Be A Product Of The Product.

Self-pity Is Essentially Humorless, Devoid Of That Lightness Of Touch Which Gives Understanding Of Life.