There is nothing an author today has to guard himself more carefully against than the Saga Habit. The least slackening of vigilance and the thing has gripped him.

One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation.

This is peculiarly an age in which each of us may, if he do but search diligently, find the literature suited to his mental powers.

Success comes to a writer, as a rule, so gradually that it is always something of a shock to him to look back and realize the heights to which he has climbed.

He virtually lives on fish

The lunches of fifty-seven years had caused his chest to slip down to the mezzanine floor.