Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.
Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.

“Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.”

“With my cheek leant upon the window pane I like to fancy that I am pressing as …”

“If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine…”

“When you asked me to speak about women and fiction I sat down on the banks of a…”