If a playwright tried to see eye to eye with everybody, he would get the worst case of strabismus since Hannibal lost an eye trying to count his nineteen elephants during a snowstorm while crossing the Alps.

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.

So much has already been written about everything that you can't find out anything about it.

Reason is 6/7 of treason.

Man is flying too fast for a world that is round. Soon he will catch up with himself in a great rear end collision.

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.

I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left hand.