Autumn Arrives In The Early Morning.

The Novelist's--any Writer's--object Is To Whittle Down His Meaning To The Exactest And Finest Possible Point. What, Of Course, Isfatal Is When He Does Not Know What He Does Mean: He Has No Point To Sharpen.

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

Expectations Are The Most Perilous Form Of Dream, And When Dreams Do Realise Themselves It Is In The Waking World: The Difference Is Subtly But Often Painfully Felt.

I Think The Main Thing, Don't You, Is To Keep The Show On The Road.

No Object Is Mysterious. The Mystery Is Your Eye.