Old men make wars that young men may die.

To the bottle! In infancy, the milk bottle; in our prime, the wine bottle; in our dotage, the pill bottle.

The stage on which we play our little dramas of life and love has for most of us but one setting.

Every writer knows the terror of an unexpected success. How to carry on? How to repeat it?

There is something shameful about the death of a play. It does not die with pity, but contempt.

The author lives with one foot in an everyday world and the other feeling about anxiously for a foothold in another more precarious one.

Love is like the measles, all the worse when it comes late.