To restore a sense of reality, I think Walt Disney should have a Hardluckland.

Looking back, my life so far seems like one long obstacle race, with me as its chief obstacle.

Son of Lady Chatterley's Lover had obvious commercial advantages (as a title for this book), but it impugned the marital status of my parents, something that enough critics were already doing.

We were ensconced as guests of the exclusive Beverly Hilton Hotel, an edifice so swank that the fire ax in the hall outside our suite said: "In case of fire-break crystal."

As I look back on my life, I see it as one long obstacle course with myself as the main obstacle.

It's almost impossible to dislike me, because I do nothing.

I'm not saying these flying discs don't really exist, but nobody living in Kansas City has seen them and that's a dry state.