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

He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things. He talked to them, urging them, ordering them. Driven back by the tide, his footprints became bays in which they were trapped and gave him the illusion of mastery.

Put simply the novel stands between us and the hardening concept of statistical man. There is no other medium in which we can live for so long and so intimately with a character. That is the service a novel renders.

At the moment of vision, the eyes see nothing.

Language fits over experience like a straight-jacket.

I do think that art that doesn't communicate is useless.

There is, they say, no fool like an old fool.