It has been well said that an author who expects results from a first novel is in a position similar to that of a man who drops a rose petal down the Grand Canyon of Arizona and listens for the echo.

Golf, like the measles, should be caught young, for, if postponed to riper years, the results may be serious.

...smoking is just a habit. 'Tolstoy', she said, mentioning someone I hadn't met, 'says that just as much pleasure can be got from twirling the fingers'. My impulse was to tell her Tolstoy was off his onion, but I choked down the heated words. For all I know, the man might be a bosom pal of hers and she might resent criticism of him, however justified.

Work, the what's-its-name of the thingummy and the thing-um-a-bob of the what d'you-call-it.

Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go out and kill a policeman.

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

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.