Of Course She Had Some Pathetic Illusions

She Could Give Herself Up To The Written Word As Naturally As A Good Dancer To Music Or A Fine Swimmer To Water. The Only Difficulty Was That After Finishing The Last Sentence She Was Left With A Feeling At Once Hollow And Uncomfortably Full. Exactly Like Indigestion.

A Room Is, After All, A Place Where You Hide From The Wolves. That's All Any Room Is.

One Realized All Sorts Of Things. The Value Of An Illusion, For Instance, And That The Shadow Can Be More Important Than The Substance. All Sorts Of Things.

They Say When Trouble Comes Close Ranks, And So The White People Did.

All Of A Writer That Matters Is In The Book Or Books. It Is Idiotic To Be Curious About The Person.