The victor belongs to the spoils.

They weren't happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale---and yet they weren't unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.

I want to tell you about your heart— you've probably been neglecting your heart—and you don’t know.

You remind me of a smoked cigarette.

For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.

I want leisure to read—an immense amount.

I've given parties that have made Indian rajahs green with envy. I've had prima donnas break $10,000 engagements to come to my smallest dinners. When you were still playing button back in Ohio, I entertained on a cruising trip that was so much fun that I had to sink my yacht to make my guests go home.