Each of his phrases was rather like a little ancient island, inundated by a miniature sea of whiskey.

Oh, it's lovely to see you!' Franny said as the cab moved off. 'I've missed you.' The words were no sooner out than she realized that she didn't mean them at all.

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

It's no fun to be yellow. Maybe I'm not all yellow. I don't know. I think maybe I'm just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn't give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too much when I lose something - it used to drive mother crazy when I was a kid. Some guys spend days looking for something they've lost. I never seem to have anything that if I lost it I'd care too much. Maybe that's why I'm partly yellow. It's no excuse, though. It really isn't. What you should be is not yellow at all.

There's a marvelous peace in not publishing, there's a stillness. When you publish, the world thinks you owe something. If you don't publish, they don't know what you're doing. You can keep it for yourself.

How do you know you're going to do something, untill you do it?

If Death stepped miraculously through the glass and came in after you, in all probability you just got up and went along with him, ferociously but quietly.