I Go Down To My Little Hut,

The Maid Screamed. The Queen Gasped. Sophie Waved.

I Began To Realize How Simple Life Could Be If One Had A Regular Routine To Follow With Fixed Hours, A Fixed Salary, And Very Little Original Thinking To Do.

A Writer Of Fiction Lives In Fear. Each New Day Demands New Ideas And He Can Never Be Sure Whether He Is Going To Come Up With Them Or Not.

If A Person Has Ugly Thoughts, It Begins To Show On The Face. And When That Person Has Ugly Thoughts Every Day, Every Week, Every Year, The Face Gets Uglier And Uglier Until You Can Hardly Bear To Look At It.

When You're Old Enough To Write A Book For Children, By Then You'll Have Become A Grown Up And Have Lost All Your Jokeyness. Unless You're An Undeveloped Adult And Still Have An Enormous Amount Of Childishness In You.