Marriage is like pleading guilty to an indefinite sentence. Without parole.

I had inherited what my father called the art of the advocate, or the irritating habit of looking for the flaw in any argument.

The people look forbidding, solemn, marked by that impossible ideal, Communism, which, like Christianity, seemed to demand too much of humanity and, falling into the wrong hands, led too easily to horrible brutality.

Check-ups are, in my experience, a grave mistake; all they do is allow the quack of your choice to tell you that you have some sort of complaint that you were far happier not knowing about.

My father, to whom I owe so much, never told me the difference between right and wrong; now I think that's why I remain so greatly in his debt.

I suppose that writers should, in a way, feel flattered by the censorship laws. They show a primitive fear and dread at the fearful magic of print.

No brilliance is needed in the law. Nothing but common sense, and relatively clean finger nails.