There Is, After All, No

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.

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.

The Whole Idea Of Interviews Is In Itself Absurd - One Cannot Answer Deep Questions About What One's Life Was Like - One Writes Novels About It.

On The Stage . . . Masks Are Assumed With Some Regard To Procedure; In Everyday Life, The Participants Act Their Parts Without Consideration Either For Suitability Of Scene Or For The Words Spoken By The Rest Of The Cast: The Result Is A General Tendency For Things To Be Brought To The Level Of Farce Even When The Theme Is Serious Enough.