... A Novel Survives Because Of Its

I Am Dead Against Art's Being Self-expression. I See An Inherent Failure In Any Story Which Fails To Detach Itself From The Author-detach Itself In The Sense That A Well-blown Soap-bubble Detaches Itself From The Bowl Of The Blower's Pipe And Spherically Takes Off Into The Air As A New, Whole, Pure, Iridescent World. Whereas The Ill-blown Bubble, As Children Know, Timidly Adheres To The Bowl's Lip, Then Either Bursts Or Sinks Flatly Back Again.

Some People Are Molded By Their Admirations, Others By Their Hostilities.

Nothing, That Is Say No One, Can Be Such An Inexorable Tour-conductor As One's Own Conscience Or Sense Of Duty, If One Allows Either The Upper Hand: The Self-bullying That Goes On In The Name Of Sight-seeing Is Grievous.

One Can Suffer A Convulsion Of One's Entire Nature, And, Unless It Makes Some Noise, No One Notices. It's Not Just That We Are Incurious; We Completely Lack Any Sense Of Each Other's Existences.

If A Theme Or Idea Is Too Near The Surface, The Novel Becomes Simply A Tract Illustrating An Idea.