The Child Lives In The Book; But

Good-byes Breed A Sort Of Distaste For Whomever You Say Good-bye To; This Hurts, You Feel, This Must Not Happen Again.

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.

A Bowen, In The First Place, Made Bowen's Court. Since Then, With A Rather Alarming Sureness, Bowen's Court Has Made All The Succeeding Bowens.

Meeting People Unlike Oneself Does Not Enlarge One's Outlook; It Only Confirms One's Idea That One Is Unique.

That Is Partly Why Women Marry - To Keep Up The Fiction Of Being In The Hub Of Things.