Dialogue in fiction is what characters do to one another.

Who is ever adequate? We all create situations each other can't live up to, then break our hearts at them because they don't.

Certain books come to meet me, as do people.

Mr. [Aldous] Huxley has been the alarming young man for a long time, a sort of perpetual clever nephew who can be relied on to flutter the lunch party. Whatever will he say next? How does he think of those things? He has been deplored once or twice, but feeling is in his favor: he is steadily read. He is at once the truly clever person and the stupid person's idea of the clever person; he is expected to be relentless, to administer intellectual shocks.

Meeting people unlike oneself does not enlarge one's outlook; it only confirms one's idea that one is unique.

When one is a child, the disposition of objects, tables and chairs and doors, seems part of the natural order: a house-move lets in chaos - as it does for a dog.

... artists were intended to be an ornament to society. As a society in themselves they are unthinkable.