The Subject Of A Novel Is Not

It Was As Though Our Love Were A Small Creature Caught In A Trap And Bleeding To Death: I Had To Shut My Eyes And Wring Its Neck.

Childhood Was The Germ Of All Mistrust. You Were Cruelly Joked Upon And Then You Cruelly Joked. You Lost The Remembrance Of Pain Through Inflicting It.

So Long As One Is Happy One Can Endure Any Discipline: It Was Unhappiness That Broke Down The Habits Of Work.

All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories. What You Remember Comes Out As Journalism; What You Forget Goes Into The Compost Of The Imagination.

A Ruling Passion Gives To A Shelf Of Novels The Unity Of A System.