If there is a special Hades for writers is would be in the forced contemplation of their own works.

But what's the good of freedom? What can you do with it? What one wants is to live well and have a beautiful house and be respected by people.

Talk is a pure art. Its only limits are the patience of listeners who, when they get tired, can always pay for their coffee or change it with a friendly waiter and walk out.

Curiosity urges you on-driving force.

People do not choose a career; the career envelopes them.

Why, lies are like a sticky juice overspreading the world, a living, growing flypaper to catch and gum the wings of every human soul. . . And the little helpless buzzings of honest, liberal, kindly people, aren't they like the thin little noise flies make when they're caught?

Anything that happens to you has some bearing upon what you write.