Silences Can Be As Different

The Novelist's--any Writer's--object Is To Whittle Down His Meaning To The Exactest And Finest Possible Point. What, Of Course, Isfatal Is When He Does Not Know What He Does Mean: He Has No Point To Sharpen.

History Is Not A Book, Arbitrarily Divided Into Chapters, Or A Drama Chopped Into Separate Acts; It Has Flowed Forward. Rome Is A Continuity, Called 'eternal.' What Has Accumulated In This Place Acts On Everyone, Day And Night, Like An Extra Climate.

People In Love, In Whom Every Sense Is Open, Cannot Beat Off The Influence Of A Place.

When One Is A Child, The Disposition Of Objects, Tables And Chairs And Doors, Seems Part Of The Natural Order: A House-move Lets In Chaos - As It Does For A Dog.

When You Love Someone All Your Saved Up Wishes Start Coming Out.