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.

Boys are beyond the range of anybody's sure understanding, at least when they are between the ages of 18 months and 90 years.

You can fool too many of the people too much of the time.

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.

It's a naive domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you'll be amused by its presumption.

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

Columbus is a town in which almost anything is likely to happen, and in which almost everything has.