A Major Character Has To

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

Christmas It Seems To Me Is A Necessary Festival; We Require A Season When We Can Regret All The Flaws In Our Human Relationships: It Is The Feast Of Failure, Sad But Consoling.

They Haven't Left Us Much To Believe, Have They? — Even Disbelief. I Can't Believe In Anything Bigger Than A Home, Or Anything Vaguer Than A Human Being.

Beauty Is Like Success: We Can't Love It For Long.

Pity Is Cruel. Pity Destroys.