History Isn't What Happened, History Is Just

What Is The Easiest, The Most Comfortable Thing For A Writer To Do? To Congratulate The Society In Which He Lives: To Admire Its Biceps, Applaud Its Progress, Tease It Endearingly About Its Follies.

Love May Not Lead Where We Think Or Hope, But Regardless Of Outcome It Should Be A Call To Seriousness And Truth. If It Is Not That - If It Is Not Moral In Its Effect - Then Love Is No More Than An Exaggerated Form Of Pleasure.

Novels Tell Us The Most Truth About Life: What It Is, How We Live It, What It Might Be For, How We Enjoy And Value It, And How We Lose It.

Was It The Case That Colours Dimmed As The Eye Grew Elderly? Or Was It Rather That In Youth Your Excitement About The World Transferred Itself Onto Everything You Saw And Made It Brighter?

Life Is Like Invading Russia. A Blitz Start, Massed Shakos, Plumes Dancing Like A Flustered Henhouse; A Period Of Svelte Progress Recorded In Ebullient Despatches As The Enemy Falls Back; Then The Beginning Of A Long, Morale-sapping Trudge With Rations Getting Shorter And The First Snowflakes Upon Your Face. The Enemy Burns Moscow And You Yield To General January, Whose Fingernails Are Very Icicles. Bitter Retreat. Harrying Cossacks. Eventually You Fall Beneath A Boy-gunner's Grapeshot While Crossing Some Polish River Not Even Marked On Your General's Map.