When she liked anyone it was quite natural for her to go to bed with him. She never thought twice about it. It was not vice; it wasn't lasciviousness; it was her nature. She gave herself as naturally as the sun gives heat or the flowers their perfume. It was a pleasure to her and she liked to give pleasure to others.

Writing is the supreme solace.

I like manual labor. Whenever I've got waterlogged with study, I've taken a spell of it and found it spiritually invigorating.

Just as the painter thinks with his brush and paints the novelist thinks with his story.

Genius is talent provided with ideals.

You cannot write well or much (and I venture the opinion that you cannot write well unless you write much) unless you form a habit.

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.