Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.

I’m exactly as I appear. There is no warm, lovable person inside. Beneath my cold exterior, once you break the ice, you find cold water.

Astronauts: rotarians in outer space.

What begins with comedy ends with comedy... in my short view of the matter.

Truman Capote has made lying an art. A minor art.

There is hardly an American male of my generation who has not at one time or another tried to master the victory cry of the great ape as it issued from the androgynous chest of Johnny Weissmuller, to the accompaniment of thousands of arms and legs snapping during attempts to swing from tree to tree in the backyards of the Republic.

All children alarm their parents, if only because you are forever expecting to encounter yourself.