Failures To Love Are Irremediable And Irredeemable.

Each Time That I Have Run Away - And From A Habit It Quickly Became An Illness - I Have Betrayed Someone. Myself, But Not Always Only Myself.

Novelists Who Treat Violence And Cruelty As Something To Be Exploited For Their Effect, Or To Enjoy The Pleasure Of An Evacuation, Are Carriers Of A Singularly Unpleasant Disease.

An Intelligent Man Or Woman Willing To Make A Career Of Reviewing Fiction Is Hard To Come By ... And The Temporaries Do The Work Cheaply. Moreover, Continuity May Be Got At The Expense Of Intellectual Arthritis; A Reviewer Who Has Been At His Grisly Task For Half A Lifetime May Stiffen Into Prejudices Of Every Sort, And Become Too Anchylosed To Do Better Than Turn His Back To A New Wave When It Rushes Down On Him.

She Did Not So Much Cook As Assassinate Food.

The Impossible Talked Of Is Less Impossible From The Moment Words Are Laid To It.