The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy.
Egocentrics are attracted to the inept. It gives them one more excuse for patting themselves on the back.
The truth is that there is only one terminal dignity – love. And the story of a love is not important – what is important is that one is capable of love. It is perhaps the only glimpse we are permitted of eternity.
We may be living in the twentieth century, in resplendent sophistication. But deep down, most of us find ourselves still in the Stone Age of superstition.
One has to grow up with good talk in order to form the habit of it.
From your parents you learn love and laughter and how to put one foot before the other. But when books are opened you discover that you have wings.
Everybody starts at the top, and then has the problem of staying there. Lasting accomplishment, however, is still achieved through a long, slow climb and self-discipline.
Childhood is a short season.
When traveling with someone, take large does of patience and tolerance with your morning coffee.
Actors work and slave and it is the color of your hair that can determine your fate in the end.
The good die young but not always. The wicked prevail but not consistently. I am confused by life, and I feel safe within the confines of the theatre.
Only the poet can look beyond the detail and see the whole picture.
Actors cannot choose the manner in which they are born. Consequently, it is the one gesture in their lives completely devoid of self-consciousness.
People who refuse to rest honorably on their laurels when they reach retirement age seem very admirable to me.
All my dogs have been scamps and thieves and troublemakers and I’ve adored them all.
When books are opened, we discover that we have wings.
Yes, I have doubted. I have wandererd off the path. I have been lost. But I always returned. It is beyond the logic I seek. It is intuitive – an intrinsic, built-in sense of direction. I seem to find my way home. My faith has wavered but has saved me.
When it comes to staying tuned: if you rest, you rust.
An actress always knows when she’s hit it and mostly you haven’t; but once or twice I think I hit it right, so maybe that’s good enough for one life.
The old-fashioned idea that the simple piling up of experiences, one on top of another, can make you an artist, is, of course, so much rubbish. If acting were just a matter of experience, then any busy harlot could make Garbo’s Camille pale.