True Goodness Is An Inward Grace, Not

I Suppose I Am A Born Novelist, For The Things I Imagine Are More Vital And Vivid To Me Than The Things I Remember.

I Had No Place In Any Coterie, Or In Any Reciprocal Self-advertising. I Stood Alone. I Stood Outside. I Wanted Only To Learn. I Wanted Only To Write Better.

It Was A Perfect Spring Afternoon, And The Air Was Filled With Vague, Roving Scents, As If The Earth Exhaled The Sweetness Of Hidden Flowers.

Knowledge, Like Experience, Is Valid In Fiction Only After It Has Dissolved And Filtered Down Through The Imagination Into Reality.

No One In The Modern World Is More Lonely Than The Writer With A Literary Conscience.