The Novel Does Not Simply Recount Experience,

Expectations Are The Most Perilous Form Of Dream, And When Dreams Do Realise Themselves It Is In The Waking World: The Difference Is Subtly But Often Painfully Felt.

Without Fiction, Either Life Would Be Insufficient Or The Winds From The North Would Blow Too Cold.

Illusions Are Art, For The Feeling Person, And It Is By Art That We Live, If We Do.

A Romantic Man Often Feels More Uplifted With Two Women Than With One: His Love Seems To Hit The Ideal Mark Somewhere Between Two Different Faces.

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