I was so uncomfortable at a party recently when the conversation droned on about women who are constantly getting married. I was on the edge of my chair, close to squirming in embarrassment because I myself was guilty of four husbands. I finally leaned forward and squeaked, 'But one died!

It's a rare man who can stand being around an intelligent woman, let alone married to her.

If everybody likes you, you are not a very interesting person.

Some young Hollywood starlets remind me of my grandmother's old farmhouse -- all painted up nice on the front side, a big swing on the backside, and nothing whatsoever in the attic.

I was thought to be 'stuck up.' I wasn't. I was just sure of myself. This is and always has been an unforgivable quality to the unsure.

You should never say bad things about the dead, you should only say good . . . Joan Crawford is dead. Good.

Dramatic art in her opinion is knowing how to fill a sweater.