Plot Is The Knowing Of Destination.

Mr. [aldous] Huxley Has Been The Alarming Young Man For A Long Time, A Sort Of Perpetual Clever Nephew Who Can Be Relied On To Flutter The Lunch Party. Whatever Will He Say Next? How Does He Think Of Those Things? He Has Been Deplored Once Or Twice, But Feeling Is In His Favor: He Is Steadily Read. He Is At Once The Truly Clever Person And The Stupid Person's Idea Of The Clever Person; He Is Expected To Be Relentless, To Administer Intellectual Shocks.

The Short Story Is At An Advantage Over The Novel, And Can Claim Its Nearer Kinship To Poetry, Because It Must Be More Concentrated, Can Be More Visionary, And Is Not Weighed Down (as The Novel Is Bound To Be) By Facts, Explanation, Or Analysis. I Do Not Mean To Say That The Short Story Is By Any Means Exempt From The Laws Of Narrative: It Must Observe Them, But On Its Own Terms.

Life Is A Succession Of Readjustments.

When One Is A Child, The Disposition Of Objects, Tables And Chairs And Doors, Seems Part Of The Natural Order: A House-move Lets In Chaos - As It Does For A Dog.

Some Ideas, Like Dandelions In Lawns, Strike Tenaciously: You May Pull Off The Top But The Root Remains, Drives Down Suckers And May Even Sprout Again.