Sophistication might be described as the ability to cope gracefully with a situation involving the presence of a formidable menace to one's poise and prestige (such as the butler, or the man under the bed - but never the husband).

Don't get it right, just get it written.

Some American writers who have known each other for years have never met in the daytime or when both were sober.

Authors of light pieces have, nobody knows why, a genius for getting into minor difficulties: they walk into the wrong apartments, they drink furniture polish for stomach bitters, they drive their cars into the prize tulip beds of haughty neighbors, they playfully slap gangsters, mistaking them for old school friends.

The dog has got more fun out of Man than Man has got out of the dog, for the clearly demonstrable reason that Man is the more laughable of the two animals

There is something about a poet which leads us to believe that he died, in many cases, as long as 20 years before his birth.

The past is an old armchair in the attic, the present an ominous ticking sound, and the future is anybody's guess.