A Novel Is An Impression, Not An

Why Didn’t You Tell Me There Was Danger? Why Didn’t You Warn Me? Ladies Know What To Guard Against, Because They Read Novels That Tell Them Of These Tricks; But I Never Had The Chance Of Discovering In That Way; And You Did Not Help Me!

Clare Had Studied The Curves Of Those Lips So Many Times That He Could Reproduce Them Mentally With Ease: And Now, As They Again Confronted Him, Clothed With Colour And Life, They Sent An Aura Over His Flesh, A Breeze Through His Nerves, Which Wellnigh Produced A Qualm; And Actually Produced, By Some Mysterious Physiological Process, A Prosaic Sneeze.

Of Course Poets Have Morals And Manners Of Their Own, And Custom Is No Argument With Them.

Why It Was That Upon This Beautiful Feminine Tissue, Sensitive As Gossamer, And Practically Blank As Snow As Yet, There Should Have Been Traced Such A Coarse Pattern As It Was Doomed To Receive; Why So Often The Coarse Appropriates The Finer Thus, The Wrong Man The Woman, The Wrong Women The Man, Many Years Of Analytical Philosophy Have Failed To Explain To Our Sense Of Order

Teach Me To Live, That I May Dread The Grave As Little As My Bed. Teach Me To Die.