But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.

Life's bare as a bone.

The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.

We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

There was no treachery too base for the world to commit.

Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.