A recent biography claims that Georges Simenon, of Maigret fame, knew more than 1200 prostitutes. A recent psychiatrist is on record as saying that Ian Fleming had to sublimate a paranoid madness by writing about James Bond. We know now that Enid Blyton hated children and didn't get on with her husband, that Agatha Christie mysteriously disappeared and reappeared, and that the later Dorothy L Sayers turned against crime fiction because she felt it would corrupt social morals. Authors are a very strange bunch indeed, and their quirks and quaintnesses are legion: here is just a small platoon of gossipy tittle‐tattle, in the interests of clearing the air, not letting go of a good thing, and flying the flag.
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