An author, like any other so-called artist, is a man in whom the normal vanity of all men is so vastly exaggerated that he finds it a sheer impossibility to hold it in. His over-powering impulse is to gyrate before his fellow men, flapping his wings and emitting defiant yells. This being forbidden by the police of all civilized nations, he takes it out by putting his yells on paper. Such is the thing called self-expression.

Every man is his own hell.

[A formula for answering controversial letters -- without even reading the letters:] Dear Sir (or Madame): You may be right.

I drink exactly as much as I want, and one drink more.

All the charming and beautiful things, from the Song of Songs, to bouillabaisse, and from the nine Beethoven symphonies to the Martini cocktail, have been given to humanity by men who, when the hour came, turned from tap water to something with color in it, and more in it than mere oxygen and hydrogen.

It takes a long while for a naturally trustful person to reconcile himself to the idea that after all God will not help him

Never underestimate the bad taste of the American public