The material came bubbling up inside like a geyser or an oil gusher. It streamed up of its own accord, down my arm and out of my fountain pen in a torrent of six thousand words a day.
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The fools ran after me and I ran after the whores, foolish though I realized such a proceeding to be.
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I must be like the princess who felt the pea through seven mattresses; each book is a pea.
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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.
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The doctor who applied a stethoscope to my heart was not satisfied. I was told to get my papers with the clerk in the outer hall. I was medically rejected.
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There is no other way of writing a novel than to begin at the beginning at to continue to the end.
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