To read of a detective's daring finesse or ingenious stratagem is a rare joy.

The more you put in your brain, the more it will hold - if you have one.

As between the intolerable and the merely distasteful, I must choose the latter.

Hemingway never grew out of adolescence. His scope and depth stayed shallow because he had no idea what women are for.

Wolfe scowled at her. I could see he was torn with conflicting emotions. A female in his kitchen was an outrage. A woman criticizing his or Fritz's cooking was an insult. But corned beef hash was one of life's toughest problems, never yet solved by anyone.

A person who does not read cannot think. He may have good mental processes, but he has nothing to think about. You can feel for people or natural phenomena and react to them, but they are not ideas. You cannot think about them.

Sometimes it's things that take the joy out of life, like a blowout when you're hitting sixty or a button coming off of a shirt when you're in a hurry, but usually it's people.