With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and definite hardening of the paragraphs.

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.

Beautiful things don't ask for attention.

Salvador [Dali] was brought up in Spain, a country colored by the legends of Hannibal, El Greco, and Cervantes. I was brought up in Ohio, a region steeped in the tradition of Coxey's Army, the Anti-Saloon League, and William Howard Taft.

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

God bless... God damn.

We all have faults, and mine is being wicked.