It Was Like Having A

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

One Gets Started, And Then, Suddenly, One Cannot Remember What Toothpaste They Use . . . The Moment Comes When A Character Does Or Says Something You Hadn't Thought About. At That Moment He's Alive And You Leave It To Him.

The Subject Of A Novel Is Not The Plot. Who Remembers What Happened To Lucien De Rebempre In The End?

Men Have Prayed In Prison, Men Have Prayed In Slums And Concentration Camps. It's Only The Middle Class Who Demand To Pray In Suitable Surroundings.

Pain Is Easy To Write. In Pain We're All Happily Individual. But What Can One Write About Happiness?