This is peculiarly an age in which each of us may, if he do but search diligently, find the literature suited to his mental powers.

I started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.

Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.

I believe there are two ways of writing novels. One is mine, making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether; the other is going right deep down into life and not caring a damn.

I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.

An apple a day, if well aimed, keeps the doctor away.

I clutched at the brow. The mice in my interior had now got up an informal dance and were buck-and-winging all over the place like a bunch of Nijinskys.