At 83, George Bernard Shaw's mind was perhaps not quite as good as it used to be, but it was still better than anyone else's.

Los Angeles is seven suburbs in search of a city.

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.

All the things I really like to do are either immoral, illegal or fattening.

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."

You haven't lived until you died in New York.

There is no such thing in anyone's life as an unimportant day.