Man has gone long enough, or even too long, without being man enough to face the simple truth that the trouble with man is man.

I was seized by the stern hand of Compulsion, that dark, unreasonable Urge that impels women to clean house in the middle of the night.

The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

Why do you have to be a nonconformist like everybody else?

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

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

Sixty minutes of thinking of any kind is bound to lead to confusion and unhappiness.