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

The work is with me when I wake up in the morning; it is with me while I eat my breakfast in bed and run through the newspaper, while I shave and bathe and dress.

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.

Perhaps that suspicion of fraud enhances the flavor.

There is no other way of writing a novel than to begin at the beginning at to continue to the end.

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.