A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.

She really started to cry, and the next thing I knew, I was kissing her all over - anywhere - her eyes, her nose, her forehead, her eyebrows, and all, her ears - her whole face except her mouth and all.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

I used to think she was quite intelligent , in my stupidity. The reason I did was because she knew quite a lot about the theater and plays and literature and all that stuff. If somebody knows quite a lot about all those things, it takes you quite a while to find out whether they're really stupid or not.

I don't know what good it is to know so much and be smart as whips and all if it doesn't make you happy.

If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.