In the pathways between office and home and home and the houses of settled people there are always, ready to snap at you, the little perils of routine living, but there is no escape in the unplanned tangent, the sudden turn.
All men kill the thing they hate, too, unless, of course, it kills them first.
With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and definite hardening of the paragraphs.
Nowadays men lead lives of noisy desperation.
There is no safety in numbers, or in anything else.
A drawing is always dragged down to the level of its caption.
I drew pictures rapidly and with few lines, because I had to write most of the pieces, too, and couldn’t monkey long with the drawings. The divine urge was no higher than that.
The trouble with the lost generation is that it didn’t get lost enough.
If you wonder which is the stronger sex, watch which one twists the other around her little finger.
I’m sixty-five and I guess that puts me in with the geriatrics, but if there were fifteen months in every year, I’d only be forty-eight.
Humor and pathos, tears and laughter are, in the highest expression of human character and achievement, inseparable.
The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.
American girls often marry someone they can’t stand to spite someone they can.
Don’t count your boobies until they are hatched.
I don’t remember any blue poodles.
At forty my faculties may have closed up like flowers at evening, leaving me unable to write my memoirs with a fitting and discreet inaccuracy, or, having written them, unable to carry them to the publisher.
Looks can be deceiving; it’s eating that’s believing.
I have the reputation for having read all of Henry James. Which would argue a misspent youth and middle age.
Somebody has said that woman’s place is in the wrong. That’s fine. What the wrong needs is a woman’s presence and a woman’s touch. She is far better equipped than men to set it right.
Americans want to go to heaven without dying.