There is no other way of writing a novel than to begin at the beginning at to continue to the end.

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.

When a man who is drinking neat gin starts talking about his mother he is past all argument.

The lucky man is he who knows how much to leave to chance.

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.

Novel writing wrecks homes.

Perhaps that suspicion of fraud enhances the flavor.

A man who writes for a living does not have to go anywhere in particular, and he could rarely afford to if he wanted.

Novel writing is far and away the most exhausting work I know.

I'd rather be in trouble for having done something than for not having done anything.

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.

There was no sign of her daughter, no sign of a small body crumpled by the railway.

The man who has done nothing but wait for his ship to come in has already missed the boat.

When you're around kids you can be a little kid yourself and pretend that life is magic and you don't have to be one of those sweaty people going to work every day.

People confuse the fact that I discuss drinking openly with the idea that I'm a heavy drinker. I don't want girls at my show wasted, screaming and yelling out and vomiting.

I let go of all I no longer love, need, or use. I adore space.

Since my baby left me, I've found a new place to dwell, down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel.

There would be no advantage to be gained by sowing a field of wheat if the harvest did not return more than was sown.

Don't fear the unknown. Embrace the opportunity. Failure is not permanent it is the essence of learning.

To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be; it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Some hurts can never be mended" he said. "No matter how much time passes. They tattoo themselves on our souls