Fiction Is Not Photography, It's Oil Painting.

As The Tragic Writer Rids Us Of What Is Petty And Ignoble In Our Nature, So Also The Humorist Rids Us Of What Is Cautious, Calculating, And Priggish--about Half Of Our Social Conscience, Indeed. Both Of Them Permit Us, In Blessed Moments Of Revelation, To Soar Above The Common Level Of Our Lives.

It Was As Though She Was An Exile From A World That Saw Things Her Way

The Victorians Have Been Immoderately Praised, And Immoderately Blamed, And Surely It Is Time We Formed Some Reasonable Picture Of Them? There Was Their Courageous, Intellectually Adventurous Side, Their Greedy And Inhuman Side, Their Superbly Poetic Side, Their Morally Pretentious Side, Their Tea And Buttered Toast Side, And Their Champagne And Skittles Side. Much Like Ourselves, In Fact, Though Rather Dirtier.

Of Course, Fairies Are All Imported In North America. We Have No Native Fairies. The Little People Do Not Long Survive Importation Unless They Go To California And Grow Large And Beautiful, But Haven't Much Flavour, Like The Fruit And The Film Stars.

Computers Will Have To Learn That When I Quote From Some Old Author Who Spelled Differently From The Machine, The Wishes Of The Long-dead Author Will Have To Be Respected, And The Machine Will Have To Mind Its Manners