The tragedy of growing old is not that one is old but that one is young.

I don’t write this letter to put bitterness into your heart, but to pluck it out of mine. For my own sake I must forgive you.

Every woman is a rebel, and usually in wild revolt against herself.

Oh, don't cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. Besides, I don't know how to spell a cough.

My writing has gone to bits - like my character. I am simply a self-conscious nerve in pain.

What of Art? -It is a malady. --Love? -An Illusion. --Religion? -The fashionable substitute for Belief. --You are a sceptic. -Never! Scepticism is the beginning of Faith. --What are you? -To define is to limit.

Two men look out a window. One sees mud, the other sees the stars.