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.

Novel writing wrecks homes.

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

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

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

A man who writes for a living does not have to go anywhere in particular, and he could rarely afford to if he wanted.

I did not ask for objections, but for comments, or helpful suggestions. I looked for more loyalty from you, Captain Hornblower.' That made the whole argument pointless. If Leighton only wanted servile agreement there was no sense in continuing.