Novel writing wrecks homes.

I thank God daily for the good fortune of my birth, for I am certain I would have made a miserable peasant.

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.

Novel writing is far and away the most exhausting work I know.

Perhaps that suspicion of fraud enhances the flavor.

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.