In middle life, the human back is spoiling for a technical knockout and will use the flimsiest excuse, even a sneeze, to fall apart.

In a man's middle years there is scarcely a part of the body he would hesitate to turn over to the proper authorities.

Thurber did not write the way a surgeon operates, he wrote the way a child skips rope, the way a mouse waltzes.

Wilbur didn't want food, he wanted love.

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something.

Well,” said Stuart, “a misspelled word is an abomination in the sight of everyone.

Writing is hard work and bad for the health.