Perhaps that suspicion of fraud enhances the flavor.

When I die there may be a paragraph or two in the newspapers. My name will linger in the British Museum Reading Room catalogue for a space at the head of a long list of books for which no one will ever ask.

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.

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

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

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.