Dinner At The Huntercombes' Possessed Only Two

When People Really Hate One Another, The Tension Within Them Can Sometimes Make Itself Felt Throughout A Room, Like Atmospheric Waves, First Hot, Then Cold, Wafted Backwards And Forwards As If In An Invisible Process Of Air Conditioning, Creating A Pervasive Physical Disturbance.

Slowly, But Very Deliberately, The Brooding Edifice Of Seduction, Creaking And Incongruous, Came Into Being, A Vast Heath Robinson Mechanism, Dually Controlled By Them And Lumbering Gloomily Down Vistas Of Triteness. With A Sort Of Heavy-fisted Dexterity The Mutually Adapted Emotions Of Each Of Them Became Synchronized, Until The Unavoidable Anti-climax Was At Hand.

Few Persons Who Have Ever Sat For A Portrait Can Have Felt Anything But Inferior While The Process Is Going On.

One Of The Worst Things About Life Is Not How Nasty The Nasty People Are. You Know That Already. It Is How Nasty The Nice People Can Be.

I Was Impressed For The Ten Thousandth Time By The Fact That Literature Illuminates Life Only For Those To Whom Books Are A Necessity. Books Are Unconvertible Assets, To Be Passed On Only To Those Who Possess Them Already.