There Are Two Ways Of Talking. One

You Can't Deny What You've Learned; You Can't Deny Your Travels; You Can't Deny The Nature Of Your Life.

What Matters In The End In Literature, What Is Always There, Is The Truly Good. And- Though Played Out Forms Can Throw Up Miraculous Sports Like The Importance Of Being Earnest Or Decline And Fall- What Is Good Is Always What Is New, In Both Form And Content. What Is Good Forgets Whatever Models It Might Have Had, And Is Unexpected; We Have To Catch It On The Wing.

How Could People Like These, Without Words To Put To Their Emotions And Passions, Manage? They Could, At Best, Only Suffer Dumbly. Their Pains And Humiliations Would Work Themselves Out In Their Characters Alone: Like Evil Spirits Possessing A Body, So That The Body Itself Might Appear Innocent Of What It Did.

I Have Always Moved By Intuition Alone. I Have No System, Literary Or Political. I Have No Guiding Political Idea.

Many Writers Tend To Write Summing-up Books At The End Of Their Lives.