He worked like hell in the country so he could live in the city, where he worked like hell so he could live in the country.

Between the years of ninety-two and a hundred and two, however, we shall be the ribald, useless, drunken, outcast person we have always wished to be. We shall have a long white beard and long white hair; we shall not walk at all, but recline in a wheel chair and bellow for alcoholic beverages; in the winter we shall sit before the fire with our feet in a bucket of hot water, a decanter of corn whiskey near at hand, and write ribald songs against organized society... We look forward to a disreputable, vigorous, unhonoured, and disorderly old age.

Many a man spanks his children for things his own father should have spanked out of him.

Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

The trouble with the public is that there is too much of it; what we need in public is less quantity and more quality.

fire is beautiful and we know that if we get too close it will kill us but what does that matter it is better to be happy for a moment and be burned up with beauty than to live a long time and be bored all the while

If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that's read by persons who move their lips when they're reading to themselves.