Everything Human Is Alien To Me.

Perhaps It Was Freedom Itself That Choked Her.

I Should Love To Do A Novel, About One Abnormal Character Seeing Present-day Life, Very Ordinary Life, Yet Arresting Through It, Abnormality, Until At The End The Reader Sees, And With Little Reluctance, That He Is Not Abnormal At All, And That The Main Character Might As Well Be Himself.

Every Man Is His Own Law Court And Punishes Himself Enough.

They Were Not Friends. They Didn't Know Each Other. It Struck Tom Like A Horrible Truth, True For All Time, True For The People He Had Known In The Past And For Those He Would Know In The Future: Each Had Stood And Would Stand Before Him, And He Would Know Time And Time Again That He Would Never Know Them, And The Worst Was That There Would Always Be The Illusion, For A Time, That He Did Know Them, And That He And They Were Completely In Harmony And Alike. For An Instant The Wordless Shock Of His Realization Seemed More Than He Could Bear.

When I Am Thickening My Plots, I Like To Think 'what If ... What If ... ' Thus My Imagination Can Move From The Likely, Which Everyone Can Think Of, To The Unlikely-but-possible, My Preferred Plot.