Speaking the truth, once you have started it, is too exhilarating to draw back.

Language is memory and metaphor.

There is a stage in any misery when the victim begins to find a deep satisfaction in it.

For what I have received may the Lord make me truly thankful. And more truly for what I have not received.

... the truth is exactly that which can't be got into words. We are forced to lie, a little or, if we are inferior, much.

An intelligent man or woman willing to make a career of reviewing fiction is hard to come by ... And the temporaries do the work cheaply. Moreover, continuity may be got at the expense of intellectual arthritis; a reviewer who has been at his grisly task for half a lifetime may stiffen into prejudices of every sort, and become too anchylosed to do better than turn his back to a new wave when it rushes down on him.

Is it really beyond our wits to devise some form of censorship which would trap only the crudely sadistic?