Look at it this way: Psychoanalysis is a permanent fad.

The satirist shoots to kill while the humorist brings his prey back alive and eventually releases him again for another chance.

Life is a crowded superhighway with bewildering cloverleaf exits on which a man is liable to find himself speeding back in the direction he came.

I write when I'm inspired, and I see to it that I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning.

My father hated radio and could not wait for television to be invented so he could hate that too.

The idea of a Supreme Being who creates a world in which one creature is designed to eat another in order to subsist, and then pass a law saying, "Thou shalt not kill," is so monstrously, immeasurably, bottomlessly absurd that I am at a loss to understand how mankind has entertained or given it house room all this long.

Confession is good for the soul only in the sense that a tweed coat is good for dandruff - it is a palliative rather than a remedy.