A very elementary exercise in psychology, not to be dignified by the name of psycho-analysis, showed me, on looking at my notebook, that the sketch of the angry professor had been made in anger. Anger had snatched my pencil while I dreamt. But what was anger doing there? Interest, confusion, amusement, boredom--all these emotions I could trace and name as they succeeded each other throughout the morning. Had anger, the black snake, been lurking among them? Yes, said the sketch, anger had.

As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.

That great Cathedral space which was childhood.

When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?

Thus Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Joyce partly spoil their books for women readers by their display of self-conscious virility; and Mr. Hemingway, but much less violently, follows suit.

Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.

We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.