Every author really wants to have letters printed in the papers. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels.

It has been well said that an author who expects results from a first novel is in a position similar to that of a man who drops a rose petal down the Grand Canyon of Arizona and listens for the echo.

He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.

I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'