A home is not a mere transient shelter: its essence lies in the personalities of the people who live in it.

The art of writing, like the art of love, runs all the way from a kind of routine hard to distinguish from piling bricks to a kind of frenzy closely related to delirium tremens.

The life of man in this world is like the life of a fly in a room filled with 100 boys, each armed with a fly-swatter.

I believe that religion, generally speaking, has been a curse to mankind - that its modest and greatly overestimated services on the ethical side have been more than overcome by the damage it has done to clear and honest thinking.

Henry James would have been vastly improved as a novelist by a few whiffs of the Chicago stockyard.

During many a single week, I daresay, more money is spent in New York upon useless and evil things than would suffice to run the kingdom of Denmark for a year.

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