What I Need Most Of All Is

It Was Futile To Attack With Reason The Stout Wall Of Irrational Feelings That, As Is Known, Is The Stuff Of Which The Female Mind Is Made.

The Eye... The Point Where A Person's Identity Is Concentrated.

Is A Novel Anything But A Trap Set For A Hero?

On The Surface, An Intelligible Lie; Underneath, The Unintelligible Truth.

It Is Wrong To Chide The Novel For Being Fascinated By Mysterious Coincidences... But It Is Right To Chide Man For Being Blind To Such Coincidences In His Daily Life. For He Thereby Deprives His Life A Dimension Of Beauty.