Plot Is The Knowing Of Destination.

Every Love Has A Poetic Relevance Of Its Own; Each Love Brings To Light Only What To It Is Relevant. Outside Lies The Junk-yard Of What Does Not Matter.

A Novel Which Survives, Which Withstands And Outlives Time, Does Do Something More Than Merely Survive. It Does Not Stand Still. It Accumulates Round Itself The Understanding Of All These Persons Who Bring To It Something Of Their Own. It Acquires Associations, It Becomes A Form Of Experience In Itself, So That Two People Who Meet Can Often Make Friends, Find An Approach To Each Other, Because Of This One Great Common Experience They Have Had.

To Walk Into History Is To Be Free At Once, To Be At Large Among People.

Mr. [aldous] Huxley Has Been The Alarming Young Man For A Long Time, A Sort Of Perpetual Clever Nephew Who Can Be Relied On To Flutter The Lunch Party. Whatever Will He Say Next? How Does He Think Of Those Things? He Has Been Deplored Once Or Twice, But Feeling Is In His Favor: He Is Steadily Read. He Is At Once The Truly Clever Person And The Stupid Person's Idea Of The Clever Person; He Is Expected To Be Relentless, To Administer Intellectual Shocks.

Princess Bibesco Delighted In A Semi-ideal World - A World Which, Though Having A Counterpart In Her Experience, Was To A Great Extent Brought Into Being By Her Own Temperament And, One Might Say, Flair.