The writer must be universal in sympathy and an outcast by nature: only then can he see clearly.

One of the troubles is this: the heart isn't heart-shaped.

Women were brought up to believe that men were the answer. They weren't. They weren't even one of the questions.

The companionship of dead writers is a wonderful form of live friendship.

The spring of 1930 marks the end of a period of grave concern...American business is steadily coming back to a normal level of prosperity.

Does history repeat itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce? No, that's too grand, too considered a process. History just burps, and we taste again that raw-onion sandwich it swallowed centuries ago.

Whisky, I find, helps clarity of thought. And reduces pain. It has the additional virtue of making you drunk or, if taken in sufficient quantity, very drunk.