Writing Every Book Is Like A Purge;

Every Moment Was A Precious Thing, Having In It The Essence Of Finality.

Women Want Love To Be A Novel, Men A Short Story.

[referring To The Birds:] Nat Listened To The Tearing Sound Of Splintering Wood, And Wondered How Many Million Years Of Memory Were Stored In Those Little Brains, Behind The Stabbing Beaks, The Piercing Eyes, Now Giving Them This Instinct To Destroy Mankind With All The Deft Precision Of Machines.

The Moment Of Crisis Had Come, And I Must Face It. My Old Fears, My Diffidence, My Shyness, My Hopeless Sense Of Inferiority, Must Be Conquered Now And Thrust Aside. If I Failed Now I Should Fail Forever.

We Are All Ghosts Of Yesterday, And The Phantom Of Tomorrow Awaits Us Alike In Sunshine Or In Shadow, Dimly Perceived At Times, Never Entirely Lost.