His books are exciting and powerful and — if I may filch the word from the booksy ones — pulsing.

I require only three things of a man. He must be handsome, ruthless and stupid.

There must be a magnificent disregard of your reader, for if he cannot follow you, there is nothing you can do about it.

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.

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

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

If you wear a short enough skirt, the party will come to you.