Quick, name some towns in New Jersey.
These are the days of bootleg love.
The wit makes fun of other persons; the satirist makes fun of the world; the humorist makes fun of himself.
It had only one fault. It was kind of lousy.
Art – the one achievement of man which has made the long trip up from all fours seem well advised.
Remember laughter. You’ll need it even in the blessed isles of Ever After.
Human Dignity has gleamed only now and then and here and there, in lonely splendor, throughout the ages, a hope of the better men, never an achievement of the majority.
He knows all about art, but he doesn’t know what he likes.
Let the meek inherit the earth – they have it coming to them.
Women deserve to have more than 12 years between 28 and 40.
Love is blind, but desire just doesn’t give a good goddamn.
A husband should not insult his wife publicly, at parties. He should insult her in the privacy of the home.
I myself have known some profoundly thoughtful dogs.
Comedy has ceased to be a challenge to the mental processes. It has become a therapy of relaxation, a kind of tranquilizing drug.
If a playwright tried to see eye to eye with everybody, he would get the worst case of strabismus since Hannibal lost an eye trying to count his nineteen elephants during a snowstorm while crossing the Alps.
Ours is a precarious language, as every writer knows, in which the merest shadow line often separates affirmation from negation, sense from nonsense, and one sex from the other.
We all have faults, and mine is being wicked.
I was seized by the stern hand of Compulsion, that dark, unreasonable Urge that impels women to clean house in the middle of the night.
I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left hand.
Laughter need not be cut out of anything, since it improves everything.