The Russian dramatist is one who, walking through a cemetery, does not see the flowers on the graves. The American dramatist . . . Does not see the graves under the flowers.

A life spent in constant labor is a life wasted, save a man be such a fool as to regard a fulsome obituary notice as ample reward.

The path of sound credence is through the thick forest of skepticism.

Art is the sex of the imagination.

A broken heart is a monument to a love that will never die; fulfillment is a monument to a love that is already on its deathbed.

Sex touches the heavens only when it simultaneously touches the gutter and the mud.

The notion that as a man grows older his illusions leave him is not quite true. What is true is that his early illusions are supplanted by new, and to him, equally convincing illusions.