Women hock their jewels and their husbands' insurance policies to acquire an unaccustomed shade in hair or crêpe de chine. Why then is it that when anyone commits anything novel in the arts he should be always greeted by this same peevish howl of pain and surprise? One is led to suspect that the interest people show in these much talked of commodities, painting, music, and writing, cannot be very deep or very genuine when they so wince under an unexpected impact.

But what's the good of freedom? What can you do with it? What one wants is to live well and have a beautiful house and be respected by people.

A curious thing about atrocity stories is that they mirror, instead of the events they purport to describe, the extent of the hatred of the people that tell them. Still, you can't listen unmoved to tales of misery and murder.

It's almost worth having been in the army for the joy your freedom gives you

Marxism has not only failed to promote human freedom, it has failed to produce food.

This ain't a war... It's a goddam whorehouse.

What's the use, there never was a woman living who could understand political ideas.