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

I had been fed, in my youth, a lot of old wives' tales about the way men would instantly forsake a beautiful woman to flock around a brilliant one. It is but fair to say that, after getting out in the world, I had never seen this happen." [From a column dated November 17, 1928]

I know this will come as a shock to you, Mr. Goldwyn, but in all history, which has held billions and billions of human beings, not a single one ever had a happy ending.

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.

I know that an author must be brave enough to chop away clinging tentacles of good taste for the sake of a great work. But this is no great work, you see.

You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.

Her mind lives tidily, apart from cold and noise and pain. And bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.