The Age Is A Vociferous One, And

The Great Novels Have Marched With The Years. They Are The Contemporaries Of Time.

To Be Honest And Yet Popular Is Almost As Difficult In Literature As It Is In Life.

The Only Natural Human Beings Seem To Be Those Who Are Making Trouble.

Apart From Letters, It Is The Vulgar Custom Of The Moment To Deride The Thinkers Of The Victorian And Edwardian Eras; Yet There Has Not Been, In All History, Another Agewhen So Much Sheer Mental Energy Was Directed Toward Creating A Fairer Social Order.

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.