At least half the mystery novels published violate the law that the solution, once revealed, must seem to be inevitable.
Its big men are mostly little men with fancy offices and a lot of money. A great many of them are stupid little men, with reach-me-down brains, small-town arrogance and a sort of animal knack of smelling out the taste of the stupidest part of the public. They have played in luck so long that they have come to mistake luck for enlightenment." - on Hollywood
The tragedy of life, Howard, is not that the beautiful die young, but that they grow old and mean. It will not happen to me.
Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say.
Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form inself on the edge of consciousness.
California, the department store state.
Love interest nearly always weakens a mystery because it introduces a type of suspense that is antagonistic to the detective's struggle to solve a problem.
One would think a writer would be happy here — if a writer is ever happy anywhere.
LA doesn't have the heart of a paper cup.
You can't have everything, even in California
Everything written with vitality expresses that vitality: there are no dull subjects, only dull minds.
If you liked a book, don't meet the author
Shake your business up and pour it. I haven't got all day.
The reading public is intellectually adolescent at best, and it is obvious that what is called ''significant literature'' will only be sold to this public by exactly the same methods as are used to sell it toothpaste, cathartics and automobiles.
She bent over me again. Blood began to move around in me, like a prospective tenant looking over a house.
Would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write in a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split, and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of bar-room vernacular, that is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed but attentive.
Could she *be* anymore out of my league?
Dames lie about anything - just for practice.
There are no vital and significant forms of art; there is only art, and precious little of that.
A check girl in peach-bloom Chinese pajamas came over to take my hat and disapprove of my clothes. She had eyes like strange sins.
I've found that there are only two kinds that are any good: slang that has established itself in the language, and slang that you make up yourself. Everything else is apt to be passe before it gets into print.
All reading for pleasure is entertainment.
All art at some time and in some manner becomes mass entertainment, and if it does not it dies and is forgotten.
I'm all done with hating you. It's all washed out of me. I hate people hard, but I don't hate them very long.
Above all never forget that a marriage is in one way very much like a newspaper. It has to be made fresh every damn day of every damn year.
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