The Craft Of The Novelist Does Lie

Only In A House Where One Has Learnt To Be Lonely Does One Have This Solicitude For Things. One's Relation To Them, The Daily Seeing Or Touching, Begins To Become Love, And To Lay One Open To Pain.

Silences Can Be As Different As Sounds.

For People Who Live On Expectations, To Face Up To Their Realization Is Something Of An Ordeal.

Sins Cut Boldly Up Through Every Class In Society, But Mere Misdemeanours Show A Certain Level In Life.

We Can Surmount The Anger We Feel. To Find Oneself Like A Young Tree Inside A Tomb Is To Discover The Power To Crack The Tomb And Grow Up To Any Height.