Upton Sinclair is his own King Charles' head. He cannot keep himself out of his writings, try though he may; or, by this time, try though he doesn't.

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

Now that you've got me right down to it, the only thing I didn't like about The Barrets of Wimplole Street was the play.

[On William Lyon Phelps's Happiness:] It is second only to a rubber duck as the ideal bathtub companion. It may be held in the hand without causing muscular fatigue ... and it may be read through before the water has cooled. And if it slips down the drain pipe, all right, it slips down the drain pipe.

There is entirely too much charm around, and something must be done to stop it.

I don't want to review books any more. It cuts in too much on my reading.

Scratch a king and find a fool!