Travel, trouble, music, art, a kiss, a frock, a rhyme -- I never said they feed my heart, but still they pass my time.

All those writers who write about their own childhood! Gentle God, if I wrote about mine you wouldn't sit in the same room with me.

That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.

Like many a better one before me, I have gone down under the force of numbers, under the books and books and books that keep coming out and coming out and coming out, shoals of them, spates of them, flash floods of them, too blame many books, and no sign of an end.

Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.

Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.

When you have to apologize, it is well, I suppose, to get the thing over quickly.