A Whim, A Passing Mood, Readily Induces

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.

Perhaps That Suspicion Of Fraud Enhances The Flavor.

A Man Who Writes For A Living Does Not Have To Go Anywhere In Particular, And He Could Rarely Afford To If He Wanted.

Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.

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.