Perhaps that suspicion of fraud enhances the flavor.

The fools ran after me and I ran after the whores, foolish though I realized such a proceeding to be.

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.

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.

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.

I'd rather be in trouble for having done something than for not having done anything.