Life Is Cruel And We Do Terrible

There Are No Sick People In North Oxford. They Are Either Dead Or Alive. It's Sometimes Difficult To Tell The Difference, That's All.

My Thoughts Went Round And Round And It Occurred To Me That If I Ever Wrote A Novel It Would Be Of The 'stream Of Consciousness' Type And Deal With An Hour In The Life Of A Woman At The Sink.

She Set About Preparing Her Supper. It Would Have To Be One Of Those Classically Simple Meals, The Sort That French Peasants Are Said To Eat And That Enlightened English People Sometimes Enjoy Rather Self-consciously - A Crusty French Loaf, Cheese, And Lettuce And Tomatoes From The Garden. Of Course There Should Have Been Wine And A Lovingly Prepared Dressing Of Oil And Vinegar, But Dulcie Drank Orange Squash And Ate Mayonnaise That Came From A Bottle.

Novel Writing Is A Kind Of Private Pleasure, Even If Nothing Comes Of It In Worldly Terms.

I Was So Astonished That I Could Think Of Nothing To Say, But Wondered Irrelevantly If I Was To Be Caught With A Teapot In My Hand On Every Dramatic Occasion.