Self-love Seems So Often Unrequited.

Self-love Seems So Often Unrequited.

Slowly, But Very Deliberately, The Brooding Edifice Of Seduction, Creaking And Incongruous, Came Into Being, A Vast Heath Robinson Mechanism, Dually Controlled By Them And Lumbering Gloomily Down Vistas Of Triteness. With A Sort Of Heavy-fisted Dexterity The Mutually Adapted Emotions Of Each Of Them Became Synchronized, Until The Unavoidable Anti-climax Was At Hand.

It Is Not What Happens To People That Is Significant, But What They Think Happens To Them.

People Think That Because A Novel's Invented, It Isn't True. Exactly The Reverse Is The Case. Biography And Memoirs Can Never Be Wholly True, Since They Cannot Include Every Conceivable Circumstance Of What Happened. The Novel Can Do That.

Dinner At The Huntercombes' Possessed Only Two Dramatic Features - The Wine Was A Farce And The Food A Tragedy.