A Novelist Is A Man Who Doesn't

It Was Night And I Could See A Large And Calm Lake, Reflecting The Moon. Black Mountains Rose Around It. I Arrived From Between Two Of These Mountains, I Looked At The Lake And The Moon, And That Was It, Nothing Else Happened.

Madame....gloatingly Savored Her Words As Earlier She Had Savored Her Pig's Trotter.

If Each One Of Us Could Make Just One Other Happy, The Whole World Would Know Happiness.

I Have Made Love To Ten Thousand Women.

And Boucard Desisted, Probably Because Like Everyone Else He Was Deeply Impressed By This Man Who Had Laid All Ghosts, Who Had Lost All Shadows, And Who Stared You In The Eyes With Cold Serenity.