I Suppose The Secret Of His Success

The Steward, According To Custom, Had Stopped All The Clocks. This, In The Language Of Narouz, Said "your Stay With Us Is So Brief, Let Us Not Be Reminded Of The Flight Of The Hours."

I Am Just A Refugee From The Long Slow Toothache Of English Life. It Is Terrible To Love Life So Much You Can Hardly Breathe!

It Takes A Lot Of Energy And A Lot Of Neurosis To Write A Novel. If You Were Really Sensible, You'd Do Something Else.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

Life, The Raw Material, Is Only Lived In Potentia Until The Artist Deploys It In His Work.