And Then One Day When

Like All Harsh, Cold Men, He Was Easily Tipped Over Into Sentiment.

Above All, He Liked It That Everything Was One's Own Fault. There Was Only Oneself To Praise Or Blame. Luck Was A Servant And Not A Master. Luck Had To Be Accepted With A Shrug Or Taken Advantage Of Up To The Hilt. But It Had To Be Understood And Recognized For What It Was And Not Confused With A Faulty Appreciation Of The Odds, For, At Gambling, The Deadly Sin Is To Mistake Bad Play For Bad Luck. And Luck In All Its Moods Had To Be Loved And Not Feared

If You Interrupt The Writing Of Fast Narrative With Too Much Introspection And Self-criticism, You Will Be Lucky If You Write 500 Words A Day And You Will Be Disgusted With Them Into The Bargain. By Following My Formula, You Write 2,000 Words A Day And You Aren’t Disgusted With Them Until The Book Is Finished, Which Will Be In About Six Weeks.

History Is Moving Pretty Quickly These Days, And The Heroes And Villains Keep On Changing Parts.

Englishmen Are So Odd. They Are Like A Nest Of Chinese Boxes. It Takes A Very Long Time To Get To The Centre Of Them. When One Gets There The Result Is Unrewarding, But The Process Is Instructive And Entertaining.