London Is A Huge Shop, With A

I Know Every Book Of Mine By Its Smell, And I Have But To Put My Nose Between The Pages To Be Reminded Of All Sorts Of Things.

And Why Should Any Man Who Writes, Even If He Writes Things Immortal, Nurse Anger At The World's Neglect? Who Asked Him To Publish? Who Promised Him A Hearing? Who Has Broken Faith With Him? Your Poem, Your Novel, Who Bargained With You For It?

Life, I Fancy, Would Very Often Be Insupportable, But For The Luxury Of Self Compassion.

People Have Got That Ancient Prejudice So Firmly Rooted In Their Heads That One Mustn't Write Save At I The Dictation Of The Holy Spirit. I Tell You, Writing Is A Business.

I Am Much Better Employed From Every Point Of View, When I Live Solely For My Own Satisfaction, Than When I Begin To Worry About The World. The World Frightens Me, And A Frightened Man Is No Good For Anything.