The critic is the duenna in the passionate affair between playwrights, actors and audiences - a figure dreaded, and occasionally comic, but never welcome, never loved.

I have no skills with machines. I fear them, and because I cannot help attributing human qualities to them, I suspect that they hate me and will kill me if they can.

What we call luck is the inner man externalized. We make things happen to us.

The division between art and deviousness and crime is sometimes as thin as a cigarette paper.

Canada has one of the highest rates of insanity in any civilized country and one reason might be that life in many places is so desperately dull.

There is no nonsense so gross that society will not, at some time, make a doctrine of it and defend it with every weapon of communal stupidity.

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