Women kill me. They really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that—although I am quite sexy. I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags out in the middle of the aisle.

It’s history. It’s poetry.

It happens to be one of those days when I see everybody in the family, including myself, through the wrong end of a telescope.

Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first one who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior.

I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting.

Listen, if you're not going to be a nun or something, you might as well laugh.

I don't know about bores. Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry if you see some swell girl getting married to them. They don't hurt anybody most of them, and maybe they're all terrific whistlers or something. Who the hell knows? Not me.