When Starting To Think About Any Novel,

Sex Stops When You Pull Up Your Pants, Love Never Lets You Go.

I've Been Trying To Write For As Long As I Can Remember. But Those First Fifteen Years Didn't Produce Much Of Great Interest. I Mean, It Embarrasses Me Very Much To Look Back On My Early Poems--very Few Lines Of Any Merit At All And Lots Of Affectation. But There Were Quite A Lot Of Them. That's A Point In One's Favor.

Death Has This Much To Be Said For It: You Don't Have To Get Out Of Bed For It. Wherever You Happen To Be They Bring It To You—free.

Cats Are Only Human, They Have Their Faults.

I Want A Dish To Taste Good, Rather Than To Have Been Seethed In Pig's Milk And Served Wrapped In A Rhubarb Leaf With Grated Thistle Root.