This God Who, As The Psalmist Said,

Human Love Is Often But The Encounter Of Two Weaknesses.

Where Does Discipline End? Where Does Cruelty Begin? Somewhere Between These, Thousands Of Children Inhabit A Voiceless Hell.

Every Novel Worthy Of The Name Is Like Another Planet, Whether Large Or Small, Which Has Its Own Laws Just As It Has Its Own Flora And Fauna.

A Writer Is Essentially A Man Who Does Not Resign Himself To Loneliness.

We Are, All Of Us, Molded And Remolded By Those Who Have Loved Us, And Though That Love May Pass, We Remain None The Less Their Work--a Work That Very Likely They Do Not Recognize, And Which Is Never Exactly What They Intended.