Perhaps That Suspicion Of Fraud

Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.

Clairvoyant, Hornblower Could Foresee That In A Year's Time, The World Would Hardy Remember The Incident. In Twenty Years, It Would Be Entirely Forgotten. Yet Those Headless Corpses Up There In Muzillac; Those Shattered Redcoats; Those Frenchmen Caught In The Four-pounder's Blast Of Canister -- They Were As Dead As If It Had Been A Day In Which History Had Been Changed.

I Have Heard Of Novels Started In The Middle, At The End, Written In Patches To Be Joined Together Later, But I Have Never Felt The Slightest Desire To Do This.

The Fools Ran After Me And I Ran After The Whores, Foolish Though I Realized Such A Proceeding To Be.

Perhaps That Suspicion Of Fraud Enhances The Flavor.