Novel Writing Is A Kind Of Private

[the Woman] Paused And Seemed To Take A Deep Breath. 'you See,' She Declared. 'i Am Tom Mallow's Aunt.' Catherine's First Instinct Was To Burst Out Laughing. She Wondered Why There Was Something Slightly Absurd About Aunts; Perhaps It Was Because One Thought Of Them As Dear, Comfortable Creatures, Somehow Lacking In Dignity And Prestige.

How Absurd And Delicious It Is To Be In Love With Somebody Younger Than Yourself. Everybody Should Try It.

Once Outside The Magic Circle The Writers Became Their Lonely Selves, Pondering On Poems, Observing Their Fellow Men Ruthlessly, Putting People They Knew Into Novels; No Wonder They Were Without Friends.

Perhaps I Need Some Shattering Experience To Awaken And Inspire Me, Or At Least To Give Me Some Emotion To Recollect In Tranquility. But How To Get It? Sit Here And Wait For It Or Go Out And Seek It? . . . I Expect It Will Be Sit And Wait.

Oh, But It Was Splendid The Things Women Were Doing For Men All The Time, Thought Jane. Making Them Feel, Perhaps Sometimes By No More Than A Casual Glance, That They Were Loved And Admired And Desired When They Were Worthy Of None Of These Things - Enabling Them To Preen Themselves And Puff Out Their Plumage Like Birds And Bask In The Sunshine Of Love, Real Or Imagined, It Didn't Matter Which.