The trouble with us in America isn't that the poetry of life has turned to prose, but that it has turned to Advertising copy.

We might define an eccentric as a man who is a law unto himself, and a crank as one who, having determined what the law is, insists on laying it down to others.

A perfect conversation would run much less to brilliant sentences than to unfinished ones.

It is the gossip columnist's business to write about what is none of his business.

Highly educated bores are by far the worst; they know so much, in such fiendish detail, to be boring about.

Conformity may not always reign in the prosperous bourgeois suburb, but it ultimately always governs.

Has there ever been an age so rife with neurotic sensibility, with that state of near shudders, or near hysteria, or near nausea, much of it induced by trifles, which used to belong to people who were at once ill-adjusted and over-civilized?