He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and hit myself on the back of the head with the floor.

I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room.

The making of a picture ought surely to be a rather fascinating adventure. It is not; it is an endless contention of tawdry egos, some of them powerful, almost all of them vociferous, and almost none of them capable of anything much more creative than credit-stealing and self-promotion.

I was neat, clean, shaved and sober and I didn't care who knew it.

One would think a writer would be happy here — if a writer is ever happy anywhere.

At least half the mystery novels published violate the law that the solution, once revealed, must seem to be inevitable.

The plants filled the place, a forest of them, with nasty meaty leaves and stalks like the newly washed fingers of dead men.