I don't like people," said Velvet. "... I only like horses.

The Press blew, the public stared, hands flew out like a million little fishes after bread.

It's not till sex has died out between a man and a woman that they can really love. And now I mean affection. Now I mean to be fond of (as one is fond of oneself) --to hope, to be disappointed, to live inside the other heart.

In marriage there are no manners to keep up, and beneath the wildest accusations no real criticism. Each is familiar with that ancient child in the other who may erupt again. We are not ridiculous to ourselves. We are ageless. That is the luxury of the wedding ring.

Dead news like dead love has no phoenix in its ashes.

When a man goes through six years training to be a doctor he will never be the same. He knows too much.

The theatre is a gross art, built in sweeps and over-emphasis. Compromise is its second name.