Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song.
Dear Mary: We all knew you had it in you.
It takes me six months to do a story. I think it out and write it sentence by sentence – no first draft. I can’t write five words but that I can change seven.
If all the young ladies who attended the Yale promenade dance were laid end to end, no one would be the least surprised.
Four things I am wiser to know: Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
One more drink and I’d have been under the host.
Sorrow is tranquility remembered in emotion.
I was the toast of two continents: Greenland and Australia.
People ought to be one of two things, young or dead.
The House Beautiful is the play lousy.
Oh, seek, my love, your newer way; I’ll not be left in sorrow. So long as I have yesterday, Go take your damned tomorrow!
People are more fun than anyone.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance; God, for a man that solicits insurance!
And if my heart be scarred and burned, The safer, I, for all I learned.
We were all imitative. We all wandered in after Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay. We were all being dashing and gallant, declaring we weren’t virgins, whether we were or not.
Honesty means nothing until you are tested under circumstances where you are sure you could get away with dishonesty.
Go to the Martin Beck Theatre and watch Katherine Hepburn run the gamut of emotions from A to B.
Now that you’ve got me right down to it, the only thing I didn’t like about The Barrets of Wimplole Street was the play.
Why, after all, should readers never be harrowed? Surely there is enough happiness in life without having to go to books for it.
Never throw mud: you can miss the target, but your hands will remain dirty.