[Completely bored by a country weekend, wiring to a friend:] For heaven's sake, rush me a loaf of bread, enclosing saw and file.

If all the young ladies who attended the Yale promenade dance were laid end to end, no one would be the least surprised.

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.

There was a reason for the cost of those perfectly plain black dresses.

Men They hail you as their morning star Because you are the way you are. If you return the sentiment, They'll try to make you different; And once they have you, safe and sound, They want to change you all around. Your moods and ways they put a curse on; They'd make of you another person. They cannot let you go your gait; They influence and educate. They'd alter all that they admired. They make me sick, they make me tired.

There must be a magnificent disregard of your reader, for if he cannot follow you, there is nothing you can do about it.

I shudder at the thought of men.... I'm due to fall in love again