Reading Proust is like bathing in someone else's dirty water.

It was Mrs. Campbell, for instance, who, on a celebrated occasion, threw her companion into a flurry by describing her recent marriage as "the deep, deep peace of the double-bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise-longue."

I count it a high honor to belong to a profession in which the good men write every paragraph, every sentence, every line, as lovingly as any Addison or Steele, and do so in full regard that by tomorrow it will have been burned, or used, if at all, to line a shelf.

I'm tired of hearing it said that democracy doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work. We are supposed to work it.

The two oldest professions in the world — ruined by amateurs.

One listens to one's lawyer prattle on as long as one can stand it and then signs where indicated.

Babies in silk hats playing with dynamite.