Of Course They're Real People. They're Oompa-loompas...imported

The Books Transported Her Into New Worlds And Introduced Her To Amazing People Who Lived Exciting Lives. She Went On Olden-day Sailing Ships With Joseph Conrad. She Went To Africa With Ernest Hemingway And To India With Rudyard Kipling. She Travelled All Over The World While Sitting In Her Little Room In An English Village.

Good Writing Is Essentially Rewriting.

The Writer Walks Out Of His Workroom In A Daze. He Wants A Drink. He Needs It. It Happens To Be A Fact That Nearly Every Writer Of Fiction In The World Drinks More Whisky Than Is Good For Him. He Does It To Give Himself Faith Hope And Courage. A Person Is A Fool To Become A Writer. His Only Compensation Is Absolute Freedom. He Has No Master Except His Own Soul And That I Am Sure Is Why He Does It.

Eschew All Those Beastly Adjectives.

I Was Already Beginning To Realize That The Only Way To Conduct Oneself In A Situation Where Bombs Rained Down And Bullets Whizzed Past, Was To Accept The Dangers And All The Consequences As Calmly As Possible. Fretting And Sweating About It All Was Not Going To Help.