I get a warm feeling among my books.

Writing is a combination of intangible creative fantasy and appallingly hard work.

I was impressed for the ten thousandth time by the fact that literature illuminates life only for those to whom books are a necessity. Books are unconvertible assets, to be passed on only to those who possess them already.

Writing is above all a question of instinct.

Self-pity is essentially humorless, devoid of that lightness of touch which gives understanding of life.

[T]here is no greater sign of innate misery than a love of teasing.

Few persons who have ever sat for a portrait can have felt anything but inferior while the process is going on.