English Literature Is A Flying Fish.

The Novelist, Unlike Many Of His Colleagues, Makes Up A Number Of Word-masses Roughly Describing Himself (roughly: Niceties Shallcome Later), Gives Them Names And Sex, Assigns Them Plausible Gestures, And Causes Them To Speak By The Use Of Inverted Commas, And Perhaps To Behave Consistently.

English Literature Is A Flying Fish.

I Have No Mystic Faith In The People. I Have In The Individual.

While Her Lips Talked Culture, Her Heart Was Planning To Invite Him To Tea

But It Struck Him That People Are Not Really Dead Until They Are Felt To Be Dead. As Long As There Is Some Misunderstanding About Them, They Possess A Sort Of Immortality.