Nothing Lasts. Not Even A Great Sorrow.

I Am Persuaded That Not A Novel In Ten Thousand Is Of Any Use To A Child To Fit Him For Life. The Most Are Of Use Only To Unfit Him -- To Blunt His Senses And Infect Him With The Writers' Poor Silly Sentiments. Nine Out Of Ten Novelists Deserve To Be Prosecuted Under An Adulterated Emotions Act.

An Intelligent Man Or Woman Willing To Make A Career Of Reviewing Fiction Is Hard To Come By ... And The Temporaries Do The Work Cheaply. Moreover, Continuity May Be Got At The Expense Of Intellectual Arthritis; A Reviewer Who Has Been At His Grisly Task For Half A Lifetime May Stiffen Into Prejudices Of Every Sort, And Become Too Anchylosed To Do Better Than Turn His Back To A New Wave When It Rushes Down On Him.

In Europe, War Is A Disease Which Has Been In The Family For Generations: No One Is Surprised When It Makes Another Leap. Even The Patient Only Attends To It With Part Of His Mind.

Women Will Always Put Persons Above Ideas ... And So They'll Always Be Defeated. Persons Die, And Ideas Rule The World.

In France, Even Heresy Rapidly Hardens Into Dogma.