And there was that poor sucker Flaubert rolling around on his floor for three days looking for the right word.

Constant use had not worn ragged the fabric of their friendship.

I'm not a writer with a drinking problem, I'm a drinker with a writing problem.

Said after she had been seriously ill: The doctors were very brave about it.

[Completely bored by a country weekend, wiring to a friend:] For heaven's sake, rush me a loaf of bread, enclosing saw and file.

[When asked what was the inspiration for most of her work:] Need of money, dear.

It turns out that, at social gatherings, as a source of entertainment, conviviality, and good fun, I rank somewhere between a sprig of parsley and a single ice-skate.