I don't understand it, and I don't like what I don't understand.

The essayist . . . can pull on any sort of shirt, be any sort of person, according to his mood or his subject matter - philosopher, scold, jester, raconteur, confidant, pundit, devil's advocate, enthusiast.

I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they

The world organization debates disarmament in one room and, in the next room, moves the knights and pawns that make national arms imperative.

Be obscure clearly! Be wild of tongue in a way we can understand.

If sometimes there seems to be a sort of sameness of sound in The New Yorker, it probably can be traced to the magazine's copydesk, which is a marvelous fortress of grammatical exactitude and stylish convention.

I would really rather feel bad in Maine than feel good anywhere else