Perhaps That Suspicion Of Fraud Enhances The

Novel Writing Is Far And Away The Most Exhausting Work I Know.

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.

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.

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 Thank God Daily For The Good Fortune Of My Birth, For I Am Certain I Would Have Made A Miserable Peasant.