Above all, he liked it that everything was one's own fault. There was only oneself to praise or blame. Luck was a servant and not a master. Luck had to be accepted with a shrug or taken advantage of up to the hilt. But it had to be understood and recognized for what it was and not confused with a faulty appreciation of the odds, for, at gambling, the deadly sin is to mistake bad play for bad luck. And luck in all its moods had to be loved and not feared

There is only one recipe for a best seller and it is a very simple one. You have to get the reader to turn over the page.

He was a secret agent, and still alive thanks to his exact attention to the detail of his profession.

I am a poet in deeds--not often in words.

One of the bibles of my youth was 'Birds of the West Indies,' by James Bond, a well-known ornithologist, and when I was casting about for a name for my protagonist I thought, 'My God, that's the dullest name I've ever heard,' so I appropriated it. Now the dullest name in the world has become an exciting one.

Like all harsh, cold men, he was easily tipped over into sentiment.

Loneliness becomes a lover, solitude a darling sin.