Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.

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

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.

I Formed A Resolution To Never Write A Word I Did Not Want To Write; To Think Only Of My Own Tastes And Ideals, Without A Thought Of Those Of Editors Or Publishers.

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.

There Is No Other Way Of Writing A Novel Than To Begin At The Beginning At To Continue To The End.