It Had Been A Wonderful Evening And

For No Man Is Damned Precisely Because God Hath Not Chosen Him, Because He Is Not Elected, But Because He Is A Sinner, And Doth Wilfully Refuse The Means Of Grace Offered.

How Wicked, My Brothers, Innocent Milk Must Always Seem To Me Now.

It Seems Priggish Or Pollyannaish To Deny That My Intention In Writing The Work Was To Titillate The Nastier Propensities Of My Readers. My Own Healthy Inheritance Of Original Sin Comes Out In The Book And I Enjoyed Raping And Ripping By Proxy. It Is The Novelist’s Innate Cowardice That Makes Him Depute To Imaginary Personalities The Sins That He Is Too Cautious To Commit For Himself.

There Is, In Fact, Not Much Point In Writing A Novel Unless You Can Show The Possibility Of Moral Transformation, Or An Increase In Wisdom, Operating In Your Chief Character Or Characters.

Every Dogma Has Its Day.