The things men come to eat when they are alone are, I suppose, not much stranger than the men themselves.... A writer years ago told me of living for five months on hen mash.

Write one good clean sentence and put a period at the end of it. Then write another one.

Life is hard, we say. An oyster's life is worse. She lives motionless, soundless, her own cold ugly shape her only dissipation.

For me, a plain baked potato is the most delicious one....It is soothing and enough.

...for me there is too little of life to spend most of it forcing myself into detachment from it.

One martini is just right. Two martinis are too many. Three martinis are never enough.

The oyster leads a dreadful but exciting life. Indeed, his chance to live at all is slim, and if he should survive the arrows of his own outrageous fortune and in the two weeks of his carefree youth find a clean smooth place to fix on, the years afterwards are full of stress, passion, and danger.