I think there's something degrading about having a husband for a rival. It's humiliating if you fail and commonplace if you succeed.
Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamp-post how it feels about dogs.
I became a virtuoso of deceit. It wasn't pleasure I was after, it was knowledge. I consulted the strictest moralists to learn how to appear, philosophers to find out what to think and novelists to see what I could get away with. And, in the end, I distilled everything down to one wonderfully simple principle: win or die.
I have always thought of sophistication as rather a feeble substitute for decadence.