For Both Writer And Reader,

An Unrectified Case Of Injustice Has A Terrible Way Of Lingering, Restlessly, In The Social Atmosphere Like An Unfinished Question.

Morality Did Not Keep Well; It Required Stable Conditions; It Was Costly; It Was Subject To Variations, And The Market For It Was Uncertain.

For Both Writer And Reader, The Novel Is A Lonely, Physically Inactive Affair. Only The Imagination Races.

You Can Date The Evolving Life Of A Mind, Like The Age Of A Tree, By The Rings Of Friendship Formed By The Expanding Central Trunk.

Any Sizeable Portuguese Town Looks Like A Superstitious Bride's Finery - Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, And Something Blue.