Sure, you make money writing on the coast ... but that money is like so much compressed snow. It goes so fast it melts in your hand.

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.

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

My verses, I cannot say poems. . . . I was following in the exquisite footsteps of Miss Millay, unhappily in my own horrible sneakers.

Dear Mary: We all knew you had it in you.

The nowadays ruling that no word is unprintable has, I think, done nothing whatever for beautiful letters. ... Obscenity is too valuable a commodity to chuck around all over the place; it should be taken out of the safe on special occasions only.

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