The drama may be called that part of theatrical art which lends itself most readily to intellectual discussion: what is left is theater.

Women say . . . that if men had to have babies there would soon be no babies in the world. . . . I have sometimes wished that some clever man would actually have a baby in some new labor-saving way; then all men could take it up, and one of the oldest taunts in the world would be stilled forever.

You're all mad for words. Words are just farts from a lot of fools who have swallowed too many books. Give me things!

The love of truth lies at the root of much humor.

Literary critics, however, frequently suffer from a curious belief that every author longs to extend the boundaries of literary art, wants to explore new dimensions of the human spirit, and if he doesn't, he should be ashamed of himself.

May I make a suggestion, hoping it is not an impertinence? Write it down: write down what you feel. It is sometimes a wonderful help in misery.

Their very conservatism is secondhand, and they don't know what they are conserving.