I find I always have to write something on a steamed mirror.

It's amazing how right you can be about a person you don't know; it's only the people you do know who confuse you.

The vehemence of my moral indignation surprised me. Was I beginning to have standards and principles, and, oh dear, scruples? What were they, and what would I do with them, and how much were they going to get in my way?

What’s the use of remembering anything? If it was unpleasant it was unpleasant and if it was pleasant it’s over.

Acting doesn't bring anything to a text. On the contrary, it detracts from it.

I always expect people to behave much better than I do. When they actually behave worse, I am frankly incredulous.

I hate champagne more than anything in the world next to Seven-Up.