One Reason Writers Write Is Out Of

I Was So Mad At My Agent. I Had Polished And Polished And Polished [the Play], And He Referred To It As A Draft. I Wrote Him A Bitter Letter: How Can You Call This A Draft? I Don't Do Drafts! By Now I've Done 18, And Its Turning, In The Rehearsal Room, Into A 19th.

The Imagination Is A Species Of Knowledge, Knowledge That Can Take The Form Of Discovery.

Literature Is An Instrument Of A Culture, Not A Summary Of It.

Of Comic Novels That Have Quaffed The Elixir Of 'classic': Zuleika Dobson By Max Beerbohm.

We Have Had, Alas, And Still Have, The Doubtful Habit Of Reverence. Above All, We Respect Things As They Are.