Certain writers, of whom I am one, do not live, think or write on the range of the moment. Novels, in the proper sense of the word, are not written to vanish in a month or a year. That most of them do, today, that they are written and published as if they were magazines, to fade as rapidly, is one of the sorriest aspects of today’s literature, and one of the clearest indictments of its dominant estheic philosophy: concrete-bound, journalistic Naturalism which has now reached its dead end in the inarticulate sounds of panic.

Longevity — predominately, thought not exclusively — is the prerogative of a literary school which is virtually non-existent today: Romanticism … it does not record of photograph; it creates and projects. It is concerned not with things as they are, but with things as they might be and ought to be … never has there been a time when men have so desperately needed a projection of things as they ought to be.