Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.

Beware the artist who's an intellectual also. The artist who doesn't fit.

I see you're looking at my cuff buttons." I hadn't been looking at them, but I did now.

Thirty--the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair.

If you're in love it ought to make you happy. You ought to laugh.

"What are you going to do?" "Can't say - run for president, write -" "Greenwich Village?" "Good heavens, no - I said write - not drink."

Understand now, I'm purely a fiction writer and do not profess to be an earnest student of political science, but I believe strongly that such a law as one prohibiting liquor is foolish, and all the writers, keenly interested in human welfare whom I know, laugh at the prohibition law.