Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.

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.

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.

When A Man Who Is Drinking Neat Gin Starts Talking About His Mother He Is Past All Argument.

Perhaps That Suspicion Of Fraud Enhances The Flavor.

I Must Be Like The Princess Who Felt The Pea Through Seven Mattresses; Each Book Is A Pea.