The World Is Always In Movement.

I Read A Piece Of Writing And Within A Paragraph Or Two I Know Whether It Is By A Woman Or Not.

All The Details Of The Life And The Quirks And The Friendships Can Be Laid Out For Us, But The Mystery Of The Writing Will Remain. No Amount Of Documentation, However Fascinating, Can Take Us There.

Look, Boys, It Ever Strike You That The World Not Real At All? It Ever Strike You That We Have The Only Mind In The World And You Just Thinking Up Everything Else? Like Me Here, Having The Only Mind In The World, And Thinking Up You People Here, Thinking Up The War And All The Houses And The Ships And Them In The Harbour. That Ever Cross Your Mind?

One Isn’t Born One’s Self. One Is Born With A Mass Of Expectations, A Mass Of Other People’s Ideas – And You Have To Work Through It All.

What Matters In The End In Literature, What Is Always There, Is The Truly Good. And- Though Played Out Forms Can Throw Up Miraculous Sports Like The Importance Of Being Earnest Or Decline And Fall- What Is Good Is Always What Is New, In Both Form And Content. What Is Good Forgets Whatever Models It Might Have Had, And Is Unexpected; We Have To Catch It On The Wing.