Tall, aren't you?" she said. "I didn't mean to be." Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her.

The creative artist seems to be almost the only kind of man that you could never meet on neutral ground. You can only meet him as an artist. He sees nothing objectively because his own ego is always in the foreground of every picture

Tall, aren't you? I didn't mean to be.

He (The Agent) just takes ten per cent of your life.

She was kind of girl who'd eat all your cashews and leave you with nothing but peanuts and filberts.

It is wrong to be harsh with the New York critics, unless one admits in the same breath that it is a condition of their existence that they should write entertainingly about something which is rarely worth writing about at all.

Some days I feel like playing it smooth. Some days I feel like playing it like a waffle iron.