There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton Fields called the Old South. Here in this pretty world, Gallantry took its last bow. Here was the last ever to be seen of Knights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave. Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered, a Civilization gone with the wind.

Prejudice is a raft onto which the shipwrecked mind clambers and paddles to safety.

In moderating, not satisfying desires, lies peace.

Love is a hole in the heart.

I have known a number of Don Juans who were good studs and who cavorted between the sheets without a psychiatrist to guide them. But most of the busy love-makers I knew were looking for masculinity rather than practicing it. They were fellows of dubious lust.

Despite all our toil and progress, the art of medicine still falls somewhere between trout casting and spook writing.

There is nothing as dull as an intellectual ally after a certain age.