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.

I thought what I'd do was I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes.

There are still a few men who love desperately.

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.

This is God's universe, buddy, not yours, and he has the final say about what's ego and what isn't.

It's one of those places that are supposed to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window.

Where do the ducks go in the winter?