Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.

Perhaps That Suspicion Of Fraud Enhances The Flavor.

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.

The Fools Ran After Me And I Ran After The Whores, Foolish Though I Realized Such A Proceeding To Be.

Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.

Clairvoyant, Hornblower Could Foresee That In A Year's Time, The World Would Hardy Remember The Incident. In Twenty Years, It Would Be Entirely Forgotten. Yet Those Headless Corpses Up There In Muzillac; Those Shattered Redcoats; Those Frenchmen Caught In The Four-pounder's Blast Of Canister -- They Were As Dead As If It Had Been A Day In Which History Had Been Changed.