And there was that poor sucker Flaubert rolling around on his floor for three days looking for the right word.

[Hospitalized and pressing the nurse's button before dictating letters to her secretary:] This should assure us of at least forty-five minutes of undisturbed privacy.

I like best to have one book in my hand, and a stack of others on the floor beside me, so as to know the supply of poppy and mandragora will not run out before the small hours.

Ducking for apples -- change one letter and it's the story of my life.

Out in Hollywood, where the streets are paved with Goldwyn.

Just begin a story with such a phrase as 'I remember Disraeli - poor old Dizz! - once saying to me, in answer to my poke in the eye,' and you will find me and Morpheus off in a corner, necking.

It's not the tragedies that kill us; it's the messes.