I flung open the door. I got a momentary flash of about a hundred and fifteen cats of all sizes and colours scrapping in the middle of the room, and then they all shot past me with a rush and out of the front door; and all that was left of the mobscene was the head of a whacking big fish, lying on the carpet and staring up at me in a rather austere sort of way, as if it wanted a written explanation and apology.

I love writing. I never feel really comfortable unless I am either actually writing or have a story going. I could not stop writing.

In your walks about London you will sometimes see bent, haggard figures that look as if they had recently been caught in some powerful machinery. They are those fellows who got mixed up with Catsmeat when he was meaning well.

The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.

There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.

The storm is over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and sit thinking of what has passed.

When it comes to letting the world in on the secrets of his heart, he has about as much shrinking reticence as a steam calliope.