Makes Of Men Date, Like Makes Of

Reason Can Never Reconcile One To Life: Nothing Allays The Wants One Cannot Explain.

Intimacies Between Women Often Go Backwards, Beginning In Revelations And Ending In Small Talk.

Art, At Any Rate In A Novel, Must Be Indissolubly Linked With Craft.

The Craft Of The Novelist Does Lie First Of All In Story-telling.

As A Novelist, I Cannot Occupy Myself With "characters," Or At Any Rate Central Ones, Who Lack Panache, In One Or Another Sense, Who Would Be Incapable Of A Major Action Or A Major Passion, Or Who Have Not A Touch Of The Ambiguity, The Ultimate Unaccountability, The Enlarging Mistiness Of Persons "in History." History, As More Austerely I Now Know It, Is Not Romantic. But I Am.