The curious hocus-pocus of criticism I can't take seriously. It consists in squirreling up some odd phrases and then waiting for a book to come running by.

No man really knows about other human beings. The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself.

Man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, then steps in it.

And, of course, people are interested only in themselves. If a story is not about the hearer he will not listen.

Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass. Change may be announced by a small ache, so that you think you're catching cold. Or you may feel a faint disgust for something you loved yesterday. It may even take the form of a hunger that peanuts won't satisfy. Isn't overeating said to be one of the strongest symptoms of discontent. And isn't discontent the lever of change?

The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It's the monster. Men made it, but they can't control it.

One pays for everything, the trick is not to pay too much of anything for anything.