For me, the novel is experience illumined by imagination.
True goodness is an inward grace, not an outward necessity.
What depresses me is the inevitable way the second rate forges ahead and the deserving is left behind.
Given two tempers and the time, the ordinary marriage produces anarchy.
Preserve, within a wild sanctuary, an inaccessible valley of reverie.
No one in the modern world is more lonely than the writer with a literary conscience.