There are some places so beautiful they can make a grown man break down and weep.

When riding my old Harley a ninety per at midnight down the Via Roma in Naples, I kept one consolation firmly in mind: If anything goes wrong, I'll never have time to regret it.

No man likes to be smoked out of his hole in February.

Great art is never perfect; perfect art is never great.

Whenever I see a photograph of some sportsman grinning over his kill, I am always impressed by the striking moral and esthetic superiority of the dead animal to the live one.

There is a fine art to making enemies and it requires diligent cultivation. It's not as easy as it looks.

Beware the writer who always encloses the word *reality* in quotation marks: He's trying to slip something over on you. Or into you.