Bokelskere.no

We see the shadows of things, not the things themselves . . . We are forced to imagine what the writer doesn't reveal.

He liked it that, at once, the girl believed him. The wish to believe him was so strong. Not a panicked feral creature, this sad-eyed girl, but a domestic creature who has been beaten and traumatized but can be reclaimed.

If a stranger had written The Shadows, he would have found it fascinating, seductive; since his younger, callow self had written it, he could hardly be deceived. No artist can deceive himself!

His Marxist sympathies aroused him to a vague self-disapproval and yet: receiving an income freed him from any obsession with money-making.