It must not simply be taken for granted that a given set of ill-assorted people, for no other reason than because it is Christmas, will be joyful to be reunited and to break bread together.

A well-made Martini or Gibson, correctly chilled and nicely served, has been more often my true friend than any two-legged creature.

I live with carpe diem engraved on my heart.

It is hard and perhaps impossible for many people to recognize the difference between innocence and naiveté.

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

But if I must be alone, I refuse to be alone as if it were something weak and distasteful, like convalescence.

I honestly believe that everything I know about the writing of non-fiction (or writing) could be engraved on the head of a pin with a garden hoe.