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

I must be like the princess who felt the pea through seven mattresses; each book is a pea.

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.

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.

Man is not the sum of what he has already, but rather the sum of what he does not yet have, of what he could have.

Anywhere I'm wanted, I'll go. I've got to be wanted, though.