The beast was harmless and horrible; and the news must reach the others as soon as possible.

The mask was a thing on it's own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-conciousness.

The writer probably knows what he meant when he wrote a book, but he should immediately forget what he meant when he's written it.

The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers....Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.

I'm not a critic so much of my own writing. People must make up their own minds over that.

I've come across a novel called The Palm-Wine Drinkard, by the Nigerian writer Amos Tutuola, that is really remarkable because it is a kind of fantasy of West African mythology all told in West African English which, of course, is not the same as standard English.

Together, joined in effort by the burden, they staggered up the last steep of the mountain. Together, they chanted One! Two! Three! and crashed the log on to the great pile. Then they stepped back, laughing with triumphant pleasure.