What A Good Thing There Is No

Novel Writing Is A Kind Of Private Pleasure, Even If Nothing Comes Of It In Worldly Terms.

She Set About Preparing Her Supper. It Would Have To Be One Of Those Classically Simple Meals, The Sort That French Peasants Are Said To Eat And That Enlightened English People Sometimes Enjoy Rather Self-consciously - A Crusty French Loaf, Cheese, And Lettuce And Tomatoes From The Garden. Of Course There Should Have Been Wine And A Lovingly Prepared Dressing Of Oil And Vinegar, But Dulcie Drank Orange Squash And Ate Mayonnaise That Came From A Bottle.

[the Woman] Paused And Seemed To Take A Deep Breath. 'you See,' She Declared. 'i Am Tom Mallow's Aunt.' Catherine's First Instinct Was To Burst Out Laughing. She Wondered Why There Was Something Slightly Absurd About Aunts; Perhaps It Was Because One Thought Of Them As Dear, Comfortable Creatures, Somehow Lacking In Dignity And Prestige.

Once Outside The Magic Circle The Writers Became Their Lonely Selves, Pondering On Poems, Observing Their Fellow Men Ruthlessly, Putting People They Knew Into Novels; No Wonder They Were Without Friends.

Life Is Cruel And We Do Terrible Things To Each Other.