Grand. There's a word I really hate. It's a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.

I don't suppose a writing man ever really gets rid of his old crocus-yellow neckties. Sooner or later, I think, they show up in his prose, and there isn't a hell of a lot he can do about it.

It was just terrible! And the worst part was, I knew what a bore I was being, I knew how I was depressing people, or even hurting their feelings- but I just couldn't stop! I just could not stop picking!

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.

Happiness is a solid and joy is a liquid.

Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?

Phooey, I say, on all white-shoe college boys who edit their campus literary magazines. Give me an honest con man any day.