The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.

Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.

Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.

There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.

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.

Like the bee its sting, the promiscuous leave behind them in each encounter something of themselves by which they are made to suffer.

Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster.