The Craft Of The Novelist Does Lie

Very Young People Are True But Not Resounding Instruments.

Spoilt Pleasure Is A Sad, Unseemly Thing; You Can Only Bury It.

... Any Fictionis Bound To Be Transposed Autobiography.

Each Of Us Keeps, Battened Down Inside Himself, A Sort Of Lunatic Giant; Impossible Socially, But Full Scale; And It's The Knockings And Battering We Sometimes Hear In Each Other That Keep Our Banter From Utter Banality.

In Big Houses In Which Things Are Done Properly, There Is Always The Religious Element. The Diurnal Cycle Is Observed With More Feeling When There Are Servants To Do The Work.