Where's the man could ease a heart Like a satin gown?

I hate writing, I love having written.

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.

Hollywood money isn't money. It's congealed snow, melts in your hand, and there you are.

I like to think of my shining tombstone. It gives me, as you might say, something to live for.

I like best to have one book in my hand, and a stack of others on the floor beside me, so as to know the supply of poppy and mandragora will not run out before the small hours.

Los Angeles: Seventy-two suburbs in search of a city.