Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not the task of the novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture in the alien an external as possible?
Wolf, Virginia. “Modern Fiction” The Common Reader, First Series. San Diego: Harcourt, 1925. 150. Print.
Notes: Life is complex; life is not simple and well organized. This is how fiction should be; what the job of the writer is