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

The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.

[On being shown an apartment by a real estate agent:] Oh, dear, that's much too big. All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.

The plot is so tired that even this reviewer, who in infancy was let drop by a nurse with the result that she has ever since been mystified by amateur coin tricks, was able to guess the identity of the murderer from the middle of the book.

I know that an author must be brave enough to chop away clinging tentacles of good taste for the sake of a great work. But this is no great work, you see.

He is a writer for the ages, the ages of four to eight.

Never throw mud: you can miss the target, but your hands will remain dirty.