Isn't it pretty to think so.

The only kind of writing is rewriting.

No, that is the great fallacy: the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful.

Cowardice, as distinguished from panic, is almost always simply a lack of ability to suspend the functioning of the imagination.

Worry destroys the ability to write. Ill health is bad in the ratio that it produces worry which attacks your subconscious and destroys your reserves.

But in the meantime all the life you have or ever will have is today, tonight, tomorrow, today, tonight, tomorrow, over and over again (I hope).

It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.