A man could rant and smash and grapple with the State Police, and still the sprinklers whirled at dusk on every lawn and the television droned in every living room.

Warren Cox, God knew, was no prize; a commercial person, a sales person, the kind of man who said things like "x numbers of dollars". At lunch today, laboriously trying to explain some business procedure, he had said "x number of dollars" three times.

There's never been anything funny about a woman dying for love.

You want to play house, you got to have a job. You want to play very nice house, very sweet house, then you got to have a job you don't like. Great. This is the way ninety-eight-point-nine per cent of the people work things out, so believe me, buddy, you've got nothing to apologize for.

The hell with "love" anyway, and with every other phony, time-wasting, half-assed emotion in the world.

Hard work, is the best medicine yet devised for all the ills of man- and of woman.

People did change, and a change could be a bloom as well as a withering.