Novel writing wrecks homes.

Perhaps that suspicion of fraud enhances the flavor.

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.

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

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

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.

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.