Perhaps That Suspicion Of Fraud Enhances The

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.

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.

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.

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.