A lot of novelists start late-Conrad, Pirandello, even Mark Twain. When you're young, chess is all right, and music and poetry. But novel-writing is something else. It has to be learned, but it can't be taught. This bunkum and stinkum… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
A home is not a museum. It doesn't have to be furnished with Picasso paintings, or Sheraton suites, or Oriental rugs, or Chinese pottery.… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
“By nine, Mildred was powdered, puffed, perfumed, and patted to that state of semi-transparency that a woman seems to achieve when she is really… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
“I ripped all her clothes off. She twisted and turned, slow, so they would slip out from under her. Then she closed her eyes… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
“Then she got up, went to Monty's mirror, and began combing her hair, while little cadenzas absentmindedly cascaded out of her throat, and cold… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
If your writing doesn't keep you up at night, it won't keep anyone else up either". — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
“Up close, she could see the sharp, cold, look that she constantly shot at Mr. Treviso, particularly when there was a break, and she… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
I make no conscious effort to be tough, or hard-boiled, or grim, or any of the things I am usually called. I merely try… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
She was a little given to rehearsing things in her mind, and having imaginary triumphs over people who had upset her in one way… — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
“She looked like the great grandmother of every whore in the world. The devil got his money's worth that night.” — James M. Cain Copy Share Image
