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.

No power on earth, however, can abolish the merciless class distinction between those who are physically desirable and the lonely, pallid, spotted, silent, unfancied majority.

We don't know much about the human conscience, except that it is soluble in alcohol.

Farce is tragedy played at a thousand revolutions per minute.

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

The worst fault of the working classes is telling their children they're not going to succeed, saying: There is life, but it's not for you.