[t]here Is No Greater Sign Of Innate

Writing Is Above All A Question Of Instinct.

When People Really Hate One Another, The Tension Within Them Can Sometimes Make Itself Felt Throughout A Room, Like Atmospheric Waves, First Hot, Then Cold, Wafted Backwards And Forwards As If In An Invisible Process Of Air Conditioning, Creating A Pervasive Physical Disturbance.

One Of The Worst Things About Life Is Not How Nasty The Nasty People Are. You Know That Already. It Is How Nasty The Nice People Can Be.

He Gave Me A Look Of Great Contempt; As I Supposed, For Venturing, Even By Implication, To Draw A Parallel Between A Lack Of Affluence That Might, Literally, Affect My Purchase Of Rare Vintages, And A Figure Of Speech Intended Delicately To Convey His Own Dire Want For The Bare Necessities Of Life. He Remained Silent For Several Seconds, As If Trying To Make Up His Mind Whether He Could Ever Bring Himself To Speak To Me Again; And Then Said Gruffly: 'i've Got To Go Now.'

One Passes Through The World Knowing Few, If Any, Of The Important Things About Even The People With Whom One Has Been From Time To Time In The Closest Intimacy.