[On hearing that President Coolidge was dead:] How can you tell?

I hate writing, I love having written.

All those writers who write about their own childhood! Gentle God, if I wrote about mine you wouldn't sit in the same room with me.

The writer's way is rough and lonely, and who would choose it while there are vacancies in more gracious professions, such as, say, cleaning out ferryboats?

Hollywood is one place in the world where you can die of encouragement.

We were all imitative. We all wandered in after Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay. We were all being dashing and gallant, declaring we weren't virgins, whether we were or not.

If, with the literate, I am Impelled to try an epigram, I never seek to take the credit; We all assume that Oscar said it.