The paintings by dead men who were poor most of their lives are the most valuable pieces in my collection. And if an artist wants to really jack up the prices of his creations, may I suggest this: suicide.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers - joined in the serious business of keeping our food, shelter, clothing and loved ones from combining with oxygen.

All this happened, more or less.

Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

People who are wary of what they might find in a book if they opened one are right to be.

Freud said he didn't know what women wanted. I know what women want. They want a whole lot of people to talk to.

Plato says that the unexamined life is not worth living. But what if the examined life turns out to be a clunker as well?