Another of these strong silent men. The world is full of us.

Statisticians estimate that crime among good golfers is lower than in any class of the community except possibly bishops.

The only thing that prevented a father's love from faltering was the fact that there was in his possession a photograph of himself at the same early age, in which he, too, looked like a homicidal fried egg.

Other men puffed, snorted, and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity of a torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint, anon, maybe, a quart or so, and returned to the shore like foundering derelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionable club. His breast stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. When he did the crawl, strong men gasped. When he swam on his back, you felt that that was the only possible method of progression.

I suppose half the time Shakespeare just shoved down anything that came into his head.

I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write.