Just begin a story with such a phrase as 'I remember Disraeli - poor old Dizz! - once saying to me, in answer to my poke in the eye,' and you will find me and Morpheus off in a corner, necking.

[Requesting her epitaph to read this way:] Excuse my dust.

Because your eyes are slant and slow, Because your hair is sweet to touch, My heart is high again; but oh, I doubt if this will get me much.

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

For a few minutes, everything is so cute that the mind reels.... And then, believe it or not, things get worse. So I shot myself.

And there was that poor sucker Flaubert rolling around on his floor for three days looking for the right word.

Excuse me, everybody, I have to go to the bathroom. I really have to telephone, but I'm too embarrassed to say so.