There is nothing more perplexing in life than to know at what point you should surrender your intellect to your faith.

[To Jean Harlow, who repeatedly mispronounced her first name:] No, no, Jean. The t is silent, as in Harlow.

I was born in the country of Hogg and Scott between the Yarrow and the Tweed, in the year 1864.

My father's nature turned out no waste product; he had none of that useless stuff in him that lies in heaps near factories. He took his own happiness with him.

She tells enough white lies to ice a wedding cake.

From the happy expression on their faces you might have supposed that they welcomed the war. I have met with men who loved stamps, and stones, and snakes, but I could not imagine any man loving war.

If Kitchener was not a great man, he was, at least, a great poster.