In all crises of human affairs there are two broad courses open to a man. He can stay where he is or he can go elsewhere.

I remember her telling me once that rabbits were the gnomes in attendance to the Fairy Queen and that the stars were God's daisy chain. Perfect rot, of course.

He looked haggard and careworn, like a Borgia who has suddenly remembered that he has forgotten to shove cyanide in the consommé, and the dinner-gong due any moment.

Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.

A man's subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks for the greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hidden away, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the misery of a miserable hour.

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

Boyhood, like measles, is one of those complaints which a man should catch young and have done with, for when it comes in middle life it is apt to be serious.