It had only one fault. It was kind of lousy.

The nation that complacently and fearfully allows its artists and writers to become suspected rather than respected is no longer regarded as a nation possessed with humor or depth.

Two is company, four is a party, three is a crowd. One is a wanderer.

I myself have known some profoundly thoughtful dogs.

Last night I dreamed of a small consolation enjoyed only by the blind: Nobody knows the trouble I've not seen!

All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.

Unless artists can remember what it was to be a little boy, they are only half complete as artist and as man.