Thought's A Luxury. Do You Think The

When I Began To Write Our Story Down, I Thought I Was Writing A Record Of Hate, But Somehow The Hate Has Got Mislaid And All I Know Is That In Spite Of Her Mistakes And Her Unreliability, She Was Better Than Most. It's Just As Well That One Of Us Should Believe In Her: She Never Did In Herself.

That Instinct For Human Character That Is Perhaps Inherent In An Imaginative Writer.

They Had Been Corrupted By Money, And He Had Been Corrupted By Sentiment. Sentiment Was The More Dangerous, Because You Couldn’t Name Its Price. A Man Open To Bribes Was To Be Relied Upon Below A Certain Figure, But Sentiment Might Uncoil In The Heart At A Name, A Photograph, Even A Smell Remembered.

Life Would Go Out In A 'fraction Of A Second' (that Was The Phrase), But All Night He Had Been Realizing That Time Depends On Clocks And The Passage Of Light. There Were No Clocks And The Light Wouldn't Change. Nobody Really Knew How Long A Second Of Pain Could Be. It Might Last A Whole Purgatory--or For Ever.

My Two Fingers On A Typewriter Have Never Connected With My Brain. My Hand On A Pen Does. A Fountain Pen, Of Course. Ball-point Pens Are Only Good For Filling Out Forms On A Plane.