Art Is One Thing That

Whenever Possible I Avoid Talking. Reprieve From Talking Is My Idea Of A Holiday. At Risk Of Seeming Unsociable, Which I Am, I Admit I Love To Be Left In A Beatific Trance, When I Am In One. Friendly Romans Recognize That Wish.

She Had One Of Those Charming Faces Which, According To The Angle From Which You See Them, Look Either Melancholy Or Impertinent. Her Eyes Were Grey; Her Trick Of Narrowing Them Made Her Seem To Reflect, The Greater Part Of The Time, In The Dusk Of Her Second Thoughts. With That Mood, That Touch Of Arriere Pensee, Went An Uncertain, Speaking Set Of Lips.

In 'real Life' Everything Is Diluted; In The Novel Everything Is Condensed.

Fantasy Is Toxic: The Private Cruelty And The World War Both Have Their Start In The Heated Brain.

Every Love Has A Poetic Relevance Of Its Own; Each Love Brings To Light Only What To It Is Relevant. Outside Lies The Junk-yard Of What Does Not Matter.