A writer is in danger of allowing his talent to dull who lets more than a year go past without finding himself in his rightful place of composition, the small single unluxurious retreat of the twentieth century, the hotel bedroom.

When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.

Everyone has the right to express an opinion. No one has the right to be listened to.

Promise is the capacity for letting people down.

All charming people have something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others.

Nothing dates like hate and in literature a little of it goes a very long way.

There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.