One more drink and I'd have been under the host.
[On hearing that President Coolidge was dead:] How can you tell?
I like to think of my shining tombstone. It gives me, as you might say, something to live for.
[Completely bored by a country weekend, wiring to a friend:] For heaven's sake, rush me a loaf of bread, enclosing saw and file.
His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.
It's not the tragedies that kill us; it's the messes.