Everything was in stark and dreadful contrast with the trivial crises and counterfeit emotions of Hollywood, and I returned to England deeply moved and emotionally worn out.

I formed a resolution to never write a word I did not want to write; to think only of my own tastes and ideals, without a thought of those of editors or publishers.

The lucky man is he who knows how much to leave to chance.

I have heard of novels started in the middle, at the end, written in patches to be joined together later, but I have never felt the slightest desire to do this.

I must be like the princess who felt the pea through seven mattresses; each book is a pea.

Novel writing wrecks homes.

When a man who is drinking neat gin starts talking about his mother he is past all argument.