One time in the late '50s, when Peter Finch, Laurence Harvey, and I were all offered the same movie role - the assumption being that we weren't friends - we marched up to producer Dino De Laurentiis's door and declared in unison, 'We don't think we're suitable for the part.'

My own favorite is something called Rogue Male.

A victory? What have we won? We've won a rock in the middle of a wasteland, on the shores of a poisoned sea.

I woke up one morning to find I was famous. I bought a white Rolls-Royce and drove down Sunset Boulevard, wearing dark specs and a white suit, waving like the Queen Mum.

If man ever comes to perfect equilibrium with the environment, we'll all be redundant, perhaps because you won't need art or letters.

If you do not surrender, I shall be forced to shoot you through the head with a rather large bullet.

Many years ago I sent an old, beloved jacket to a cleaner, the Sycamore Cleaners. It was a leather jacket covered in Guinness and blood and marmalade, one of those jobs... and it came back with a little note pinned to it, and on the note it said, 'It distresses us to return work which is not perfect.' So that will do for me. That can go on my tombstone.