I knew nothing about farce until I read Puce a l'Oreille, and had no idea what a deadly serious business it is.

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.

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.

It is desperately important to remember when enough is enough, when you've finished the scene.

What obsesses a writer starting out on a lifetime's work is the panic-stricken search for a voice of his own.

We may not be the creme de la creme, but we are the creme de la scum.

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