The Return To A Favorite Novel Is

All Dramatic Realism Is Somewhat Sadistic; An Audience Is Persuaded To Watch Something That Makes It Uncomfortable And From Which No Relief Is Offered - No Laughter, No Tears, No Purgation.

As Subjects, We All Live In Suspense, From Day To Day, From Hour To Hour; In Other Words, We Are The Hero Of Our Own Story. We Cannot Believe That It Is Finished, That We Are 'finished,' Even Though We May Say So; We Expect Another Chapter, Another Installment, Tomorrow Or Next Week.

In Verity We Are The Poor. This Humanity We Would Claim For Ourselves Is The Legacy, Not Only Of The Enlightenment, But Of The Thousands And Thousands Of European Peasants And Poor Townspeople Who Came Here Bringing Their Humanity And Their Sufferings With Them. It Is The Absence Of A Stable Upper Class That Is Responsible For Much Of The Vulgarity Of The American Scene. Should We Blush Before The Visitor For This Deficiency?

Love Of Truth, Ordinary Common Truth Recognizable To Everyone, Is The Ruling Passion Of The Novel.

What's The Use Of Falling In Love If You Both Remain Inertly As You Were?