Yes, Writing A Novel, My Boy, Is

The Writer, Unlike His Non-writing Adult Friend, Has No Predisposed Outlook; He Seldom Observes Deliberately. He Sees What He Didnot Intend To See; He Remembers What Does Not Seem Wholly Possible. Inattentive Learner In The Schoolroom Of Life, He Keeps Some Faculty Free To Veer And Wander. His Is The Roving Eye.

The Heart May Think It Knows Better: The Senses Know That Absence Blots People Out. We Really Have No Absent Friends. The Friend Becomes A Traitor By Breaking, However Unwillingly Or Sadly, Out Of Our Own Zone: A Hard Judgment Is Passed On Him, For All The Pleas Of The Heart.

No, It Is Not Only Our Fate But Our Business To Lose Innocence, And Once We Have Lost That, It Is Futile To Attempt A Picnic In Eden.

Almost Everybody Wore A Curious Limpidity Of Expression, Like Newborn Babies Or Souls Just After Death. Dazed But Curiously Dignified.... After A Criseof Hysterical Revulsion And Tiredness, I Passed Beyondand Became Entered By A Rather Sublime Feeling.

Sacrificers Are Not The Ones To Pity. The Ones To Pity Are Those They Sacrifice.