she kept sliding down, in small half-willing surrenders, till she was a heap, with the book held tiringly above her face.

she kept sliding down, in small half-willing surrenders, till she was a heap, with the book held tiringly above her face.

What the problem was was this colossal redundancy, the squandering of brilliant technique on cheap material.

...all his longings came out as a kind of disdain for what he longed for.

He wanted pure compliments, just as he wanted unconditional love.

I was rather a goody-goody as a child... It was only later on I discovered that you could be naughty and get away with it.

I think being an only child created in me a degree of self-reliance, which I'm glad of. It made me perfectly happy with my own company and perhaps was good conditioning for the protracted solitude of writing books as slowly as I do.