The Suitable Is The Last Thing We

I Ain't Never Seen No Head So Level That It Could Bear The Lettin' In Of Politics.

It Was A Perfect Spring Afternoon, And The Air Was Filled With Vague, Roving Scents, As If The Earth Exhaled The Sweetness Of Hidden Flowers.

Surely The Novel Should Be A Form Of Art - But Art Was Not Enough. It Must Contain Not Only The Perfection Of Art, But The Imperfection Of Nature.

I Liked Human Beings, But I Did Not Love Human Nature.

Of One Thing Alone I Am Very Sure: It Is A Law Of Our Nature That The Memory Of Longing Should Survive The More Fugitive Memory Of Fulfillment.