American girls often marry someone they can't stand to spite someone they can.

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

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

Human Dignity has gleamed only now and then and here and there, in lonely splendor, throughout the ages, a hope of the better men, never an achievement of the majority.

It was Lisa, aged five, whose mother asked her to thank my wife for the peas we had sent them from our garden. 'I thought the peas were awful, I wish you and Mrs. Thurber were dead, and I hate trees,' said Lisa.

Beautiful things don't ask for attention.

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