Guns aren't lawful; nooses give; gas smells awful. So you might as well live.

Nevil Shute's On the Beach is no Christmas carol, but it seems to me a remarkably fine novel, one which I read, in the peculiarly repulsive phrase, with my eyes glued to the page.

His books are exciting and powerful and — if I may filch the word from the booksy ones — pulsing.

[On an actor who'd broken her leg in London:] Oh, how terrible. She must have done it sliding down a barrister.

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

I've finally gotten to the bottom of things.

Because your eyes are slant and slow, Because your hair is sweet to touch, My heart is high again; but oh, I doubt if this will get me much.