I remember when I was younger, there was a well-known writer who used to dart down the back way whenever saw me coming. I suppose he was in love with me and wasn't quite sure of himself. Well, c'est la vie!

Tenterhooks are the upholstery of the anxious seat.

And who are the greater criminals-those who sell the instruments of death, or those who buy them and use them?

Poor, dear God. Playing Idiot's Delight. The game that never means anything, and never ends.

He must be independent and brave, and sure of himself and of the importance of his work, because if he isn't he will never survive the scorching blasts of derision that will probably greet his first efforts.

The only people who grow old were born old to begin with.

That's the whole story of my life: frustration. It's a chronic disease, and it's incurable.