Now that you've got me right down to it, the only thing I didn't like about The Barrets of Wimplole Street was the play.

London is satisfied, Paris is resigned, but New York is always hopeful. Always it believes that something good is about to come off, and it must hurry to meet it.

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

Go to the Martin Beck Theatre and watch Katherine Hepburn run the gamut of emotions from A to B.

The Swiss are a neat and an industrious people, none of whom is under seventy-five years of age.

[After she and Clare Boothe Luce met in a doorway and the latter said, 'Age before beauty':] Pearls before swine.

There is entirely too much charm around, and something must be done to stop it.