People Think That Because A Novel's Invented,

For Reasons Not Always At The Time Explicable, There Are Specific Occasions When Events Begin Suddenly To Take On A Significance Previously Unsuspected, So That, Before We Really Know Where We Are, Life Seems To Have Begun In Earnest At Last, And We Ourselves, Scarcely Aware That Any Change Has Taken Place, Are Careering Uncontrollably Down The Slippery Avenues Of Eternity.

[t]here Is No Greater Sign Of Innate Misery Than A Love Of Teasing.

There Is, After All, No Pleasure Like That Given By A Woman Who Really Wants To See You.

Writing Is Above All A Question Of Instinct.

Self-love Seems So Often Unrequited.