It's not the tragedies that kill us; it's the messes.

Drink and dance and laugh and lie, Love, the reeling midnight through, For tomorrow we shall die! (But, alas, we never do.)

The ones I like are ‘cheque’ and ‘enclosed.’

Her big heart did not, as is so sadly often the case, inhabit a big bosom.

Years are only garments, and you either wear them with style all your life, or else you go dowdy to the grave.

Why, after all, should readers never be harrowed? Surely there is enough happiness in life without having to go to books for it.

This must be a gift book. That is to say a book, which you wouldn't take on any other terms.