Most people do not believe in anything very much and our greatest poetry is given to us by those who do.

Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations.

Marriage is the permanent conversation between two people who talk over everything and everyone until death breaks the record.

Dining out is a vice, a dissipation of spirit punished by remorse. We eat, drink, and talk a little too much, abuse all our friends, belch out our literary preferences and are egged on by accomplices in the audience to acts of mental exhibitionism. Such evenings cannot fail to diminish those who take part in them. They end on Monkey Hill.

Except for poverty, incompatibility, opposition of parents, absence of love on one side and of desire to marry on both, nothing stands in the way of our happy union.

For what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?

Civilization is maintained by a very few people in a small number of places and we need only some bombs and a few prisons to blot it out altogether.