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.

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.

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.

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