I must be like the princess who felt the pea through seven mattresses; each book is a pea.
With two people and luggage on board she draws four inches of water. Two canoe paddles will move her along at a speed reasonable enough in moderate currents.
I have heard of novels started in the middle, at the end, written in patches to be joined together later, but I have never felt the slightest desire to do this.
There is no other way of writing a novel than to begin at the beginning at to continue to the end.
They managed to find time... to tell me that there was no chance of my being accepted for service and that really I should be surprised to still be alive.
A whim, a passing mood, readily induces the novelist to move hearth and home elsewhere. He can always plead work as an excuse to get him out of the clutches of bothersome hosts.
Novel writing wrecks homes.
A man who writes for a living does not have to go anywhere in particular, and he could rarely afford to if he wanted.
When a man who is drinking neat gin starts talking about his mother he is past all argument.
The lucky man is he who knows how much to leave to chance.
Novel writing is far and away the most exhausting work I know.
The work is with me when I wake up in the morning; it is with me while I eat my breakfast in bed and run through the newspaper, while I shave and bathe and dress.
When I die there may be a paragraph or two in the newspapers. My name will linger in the British Museum Reading Room catalogue for a space at the head of a long list of books for which no one will ever ask.
Everything was in stark and dreadful contrast with the trivial crises and counterfeit emotions of Hollywood, and I returned to England deeply moved and emotionally worn out.
There is still need to think and plan, but on a different scale, and along different lines.