(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.

What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down.

She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.

Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illuminated his memory.

Deal with him, Hemingway!

What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.