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.
It is well known that, when two authors meet, they at once start talking about money-like everyone else.
It's all in the art. You get no credit for living.
The makers of the short story have rarely been good novelists.
Detective stories are the art-for-art's sake of yawning Philistinism.
It is less the business of the novelist to tell us what happened than to show how it happened.