The Historian Records, But The Novelist Creates.

It Is The Vice Of A Vulgar Mind To Be Thrilled By Bigness, To Think That A Thousand Square Miles Are A Thousand Times More Wonderful Than One Square Mile, And That A Million Square Miles Are Almost The Same As Heaven.

At Times Our Need For A Sympathetic Gesture Is So Great That We Care Not What Exactly It Signifies Or How Much We May Have To Pay For It Afterwards.

Outside The Arch, Always There Seemed Another Arch. And Beyond The Remotest Echo, A Silence.

The Strong Are So Stupid.

The Sadness Of The Incomplete, The Sadness That Is Often Life, But Should Never Be Art.