One of the delights beyond the grasp of youth is that of Not Going. Not to have an invitation for the dance, the party, the picnic, the excursion is to be diminished. To have an invitation and then not to be able to go -- oh cursed spite! Now I do not care the rottenest fig whether I receive an invitation or not. After years of illusion, I finally decided I was missing nothing by Not Going. I no longer care whether I am missing anything or not.

It is good fiction, so largely ignored now, that brings us so much closer to the real facts.

Man, the creature who knows he must die, who has dreams larger than his destiny, who is forever working a confidence trick on himself, needs an ally. Mine has been tobacco.

Write as often as possible, not with the idea at once of getting into print, but as if you were learning an instrument.

Much of writing might be described as mental pregnancy with successive difficult deliveries.

We should like to have some towering geniuses, to reveal us to ourselves in colour and fire, but of course they would have to fit into the pattern of our society and be able to take orders from sound administrative types.

A loving wife will do anything for her husband except stop criticizing him and trying to improve him.