All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories.

When I Replied That I Loved Her Too In That Way, I Was The Liar, Not She, For I Never Lose The Consciousness Of Time: To Me The Present Is Never Here: It Is Always Last Year Or Next Week.

That Instinct For Human Character That Is Perhaps Inherent In An Imaginative Writer.

So Much Of Life [is] A Putting-off Of Unhappiness For Another Time. Nothing [is] Ever Lost By Delay.

Like The Characters In Chekhov, They Have No Reserves -– You Learn The Most Intimate Secrets. You Get An Impression Of A World Peopled By Eccentrics, Of Odd Professions, Almost Incredible Stupidities, And, To Balance Them, Amazing Endurances.

A Single Feat Of Daring Can Alter The Whole Conception Of What Is Possible.