My first love was Cinderella, but she ran off with another man.

London is satisfied, Paris is resigned, but New York is always hopeful.

Mrs. Ewing was a short woman who accepted the obligation borne by so many short women to make up in vivacity what they lack in number of inches from the ground.

Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.

Little Words When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf, Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds; And I can only stare, and shape my grief In little words. I cannot conjure loveliness, to drown The bitter woe that racks my cords apart. The weary pen that sets my sorrow down Feeds at my heart. There is no mercy in the shifting year, No beauty wraps me tenderly about. I turn to little words- so you, my dear, Can spell them out.

[On Katharine Hepburn's stage performance:] She ran the whole gamut of emotions, from A to B.

What writes worse than a Theodore Dreiser? ... Two Theodore Dreisers.