Seventy is wormwood, Seventy is gall But its better to be seventy, Than not alive at all.

These are my daughters, I suppose. But where in the world did the children vanish?

Compromise, if not the spice of life, is its solidity. It is what makes nations great and marriages happy

Frigidity is largely nonsense. It is this generation's catchword, one only vaguely understood and constantly misused. Frigid women are few. There is a host of diffident and slow-ripening ones.

Men can't be trusted with pruning shears any more than they can be trusted with the grocery money in a delicatessen . . . They are like boys with new pocket knives who will not stop whittling.

Praise is warming and desirable. But it is an earned thing. It has to be deserved, like a hug from a child.

Gossip isn't scandal and it's not merely malicious. It's chatter about the human race by lovers of the same. Gossip is the tool of the poet, the shop-talk of the scientist, and the consolation of the housewife, wit, tycoon and intellectual. It begins in the nursery and ends when speech is past.