The moment a man sets his thoughts down on paper, however secretly, he is in a sense writing for publication.

Undoubtedly the stories about them [hard-boiled detectives] had a fantastic element. Such things happened, but not so rapidly, nor to so close-knit a group of people, nor within so narrow a frame of logic. This was inevitable because the demand was for constant action; if you stopped to think you were lost. When in doubt, have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand.

A good story cannot be devised; it has to be distilled.

When I left Merle was wearing a bungalow apron and rolling pie crust. She came to the door wiping her hands on the apron and kissed me on the mouth and began to cry and ran back into the house, leaving the doorway empty [...] I had a funny feeling as I saw the house disappear, as though I had written a poem and it was very good and I had lost it and would never remember it again. (p. 262)

Some days I feel like playing it smooth. Some days I feel like playing it like a waffle iron.

The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back.

However toplofty and idealistic a man may be, he can always rationalize his right to earn money.