One martini is all right. Two are too many, and three are not enough.

My grandmother lived the latter years of her life in the horrible suspicion that electricity was dripping invisibly all over the house. It leaked, she contended, out of empty sockets if the wall switch had been left on. She would go around screwing in bulbs, and if they lighted up, she would fearfully turn off the wall switch and go back to her Pearson's or Everybody's, happy in the satisfaction that she had stopped not only a costly but dangerous leakage. nothing could ever clear this up for her.

Most of the faint intimations of immortality of which we are occasionally aware would seem to arise out of Art or the materials of Art.

No male can beat a female in the long run because they have it over us in sheer, damn longevity.

Though statisticians in our time have never kept the score, Man wants a great deal here below and Woman even more.

I loathe the expression “What makes him tick.” It is the American mind, looking for simple and singular solutions, that uses the foolish expression. A person not only ticks, he also chimes and strikes the hour, falls and breaks and has to be put together again, and sometimes stops like an electric clock in a thunderstorm.

If I have sometimes seemed to make fun of Woman, I assure you it has only been for the purpose of egging her on.