... In Nine Out Of Ten Cases

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.

The Child Lives In The Book; But Just As Much The Book Lives In The Child.

Convention Was Our Safeguard: Could One Have Stronger?

Darling, I Don't Want You; I've Got No Place For You; I Only Want What You Give. I Don't Want The Whole Of Anyone.... What You Want Is The Whole Of Me-isn't It, Isn't It?-and The Whole Of Me Isn't There For Anybody. In That Full Sense You Want Me I Don't Exist.

As A Novelist, I Cannot Occupy Myself With "characters," Or At Any Rate Central Ones, Who Lack Panache, In One Or Another Sense, Who Would Be Incapable Of A Major Action Or A Major Passion, Or Who Have Not A Touch Of The Ambiguity, The Ultimate Unaccountability, The Enlarging Mistiness Of Persons "in History." History, As More Austerely I Now Know It, Is Not Romantic. But I Am.