The detective novel is the art-for-art's-sake of our yawning Philistinism, the classic example of a specialized form of art removed from contact with the life it pretends to build on.

Among the masked dandies of Edwardian comedy, Max Beerbohm is the most happily armored by a deep and almost innocent love of himself as a work of art.

The Canadian spirit is cautious, observant and critical where the American is assertive.

It's all in the art. You get no credit for living.

Writing enlarges the landscape of the mind.

Those mausoleums of inactive masculinity are places for men who prefer armchairs to women.

It is well known that, when two authors meet, they at once start talking about money-like everyone else.