My book Auntie Mame circulated for five years, through the halls of fifteen publishers and finally ended up with Vanguard Press, which, as you can see, is rather deep into the alphabet.
One could always baffle Conrad by saying “humour”.
You ask if I keep a copy of every book I print. Madam, I keep thousands.
Only ambitious nonentities and hearty mediocrities exhibit their rough drafts. It’s like passing around samples of one’s sputum.
Jane Austen’s books, too, are absent from this library. Just that one omission alone would make a fairly good library out of a library that hadn’t a book in it.
All my major works have been written in prison. I would recommend prison not only to aspiring writers but to aspiring politicians too.
Meredith is a prose Browning, and so is Browning.
I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who would call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.
The only trouble with Seamus O’Sullivan is that when he’s not drunk he’s sober.
John Cole’s book is a strangely old fashioned work, of the kind that used to be written in the 1920s by authors with such pseudonyms as A Gentleman With A Duster.
This book is the best work of fiction since fidelity was included in the French marriage vows.
I do not think the expenditure of $2.50 for a book entitles the purchaser to the personal friendship of the author.
A magnum opus is a book which when dropped from a three storey building is big enough to kill a man.
What every author really wants is to have letters printed in the newspaper. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels.
Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)
Wise Wit (Watch your Language)
