The Novel Does Not Simply Recount Experience,

...the Power-loving Temperament Is More Dangerous When It Either Prefers Or Is Forced To Operate In What Is Materially A Void. Wehave Everything To Dread From The Dispossessed.

Nobody Can Be Kinder Than The Narcissist While You React To Life In His Own Terms.

Memory Is To Love What The Saucer Is To The Cup.

She Had One Of Those Charming Faces Which, According To The Angle From Which You See Them, Look Either Melancholy Or Impertinent. Her Eyes Were Grey; Her Trick Of Narrowing Them Made Her Seem To Reflect, The Greater Part Of The Time, In The Dusk Of Her Second Thoughts. With That Mood, That Touch Of Arriere Pensee, Went An Uncertain, Speaking Set Of Lips.

To The Sun Rome Owes Its Underlying Glow, And Its Air Called Golden - To Me, More The Yellow Of White Wine; Like Wine It Raises Agreeability To Poetry.