Life Is A Succession Of Readjustments.

As A Novelist, I Cannot Occupy Myself With "characters," Or At Any Rate Central Ones, Who Lack Panache, In One Or Another Sense, Who Would Be Incapable Of A Major Action Or A Major Passion, Or Who Have Not A Touch Of The Ambiguity, The Ultimate Unaccountability, The Enlarging Mistiness Of Persons "in History." History, As More Austerely I Now Know It, Is Not Romantic. But I Am.

Nothing Is More Restful Than Conformity.

Autumn Arrives In Early Morning, But Spring At The Close Of A Winter Day.

Forgiveness Should Be An Act, But This Is A State With Him.

Raids Are Slightly Constipating.