The Lucky Man Is He Who Knows

Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.

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.

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.

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 Lucky Man Is He Who Knows How Much To Leave To Chance.