I'd rather be in trouble for having done something than for not having done anything.

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

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.

A whim, a passing mood, readily induces the novelist to move hearth and home elsewhere. He can always plead work as an excuse to get him out of the clutches of bothersome hosts.

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.

Novel writing wrecks homes.

The fools ran after me and I ran after the whores, foolish though I realized such a proceeding to be.