Women have simple tastes. They get pleasure out of the conversation of children in arms and men in love.
It is now quite lawful for a Catholic woman to avoid pregnancy by a resort to mathematics, though she is still forbidden to resort to physics or chemistry.
Immorality: the morality of those who are having a better time.
Love is the delusion that one woman differs from another.
A national political campaign is better than the best circus ever heard of, with a mass baptism and a couple of hangings thrown in.
The only really happy folk are married women and single men.
The public, with its mob yearning to be instructed, edified and pulled by the nose, demands certainties; it must be told definitely and a bit raucously that this is true and that is false. But there are no certainties.
Of all forms of visible otherworldliness, it seems to me, the Gothic is at once the most logical and the most beautiful. It reaches up magnificently-and a good half of it is palpably useless.
The Americans are the illegitimate children of the English.
High-toned humanitarians constantly overestimate the sufferings of those they sympathize with.
The chief business of the nation, as a nation, is the setting up of heroes, mainly bogus.
It is surely no mere coincidence that the land of the emancipated and enthroned woman is also the land of canned soup, of canned pork and beans, of whole meals in cans, and of everything else ready made.
Anyhow, the hole in the donut is at least digestible.
If a sense of duty tortures a man, it also enables him to achieve prodigies.
In human history a moral victory is always a disaster, for it debauches and degrades both the victor and the vanquished.
Culture itself is neither education nor law-making: it is an atmosphere and a heritage.
A gentlemen is one who never strikes a woman without provocation.
The only really respectable Protestants are the fundamentalists. Unfortunately, they are also palpable idiots.
The Old Testament, as everyone who has looked into it is aware, drips with blood; there is, indeed, no more bloody chronicle in all the literature of the world.
How little it takes to make life unbearable: a pebble in the shoe, a cockroach in the spaghetti, a woman’s laugh.