London, How Could One Ever Be Tired

Lord Knows What Incommunicable Small Terrors Infants Go Through, Unknown To All. We Disregard Them, We Say They Forget, Because They Have Not The Words To Make Us Remember. ... By The Time They Learn To Speak They Have Forgotten The Details Of Their Complaints, And So We Never Know. They Forget So Quickly, We Say, Because We Cannot Contemplate The Fact That They Never Forget.

Scenery Can Be A Violent Stimulant.

There Would Be More Genuine Rejoicing At The Discovery Of A Complete New Novel By Jane Austen Than Any Other Literary Discovery, Short Of A New Major Play By Shakespeare.

What Really Annoys Me Are The Ones Who Write To Say, I Am Doing Your Book For My Final Examinations And Could You Please Tell Me What The Meaning Of It Is. I Find It Just So Staggering--that You're Supposed To Explain The Meaning Of Your Book To Some Total Stranger! If I Knew What The Meanings Of My Books Were, I Wouldn't Have Bothered To Write Them.

Because If One Has An Image, However Dim And Romantic, Of A Journey's End, One May, In The End, Surely Reach It, After No Matter How Many Detours And Deceptions And Abandonings Of Hope. And Hope Could Never Have Been Entirely Abandoned, Even In The Worst Days.