The idea is that inside every human being, however unprepossessing, there is a glorious, talented, and overwhelmingly attractive personality. Nonsense. Inside each of us is a mess of unruly, primitive impulses, and these can sometimes, under the strenuous self-discipline and dedication of art, result in notable creativity.

We know of our own knowledge that we are human beings, and, as such, imperfect. But we are bathed by the communications industry in a ceaseless tide of inhuman, impossible perfection.

The attitude of the English towards English history reminds one a good deal of the attitude of a Hollywood director towards love.

What I know about money, I learned the hard way – by having had it.

Listening to Britons dining out is like watching people play first-class tennis with imaginary balls.

A person may be totally unimaginative and have the social vision of a mole, and we still call him a decent man.

The only men who can turn my blood stream into a condition resembling heavy surf are good-looking heels with characters as intricately unpleasant as the sewers of Paris. With decent and honorable gents, I come all over Platonic. Was ever a woman so perverse and wrongheaded?