English life, while very pleasant, is rather bland. I expected kindness and gentility and I found it, but there is such a thing as too much couth.

I found the pearl of the Orient slightly less exciting than a rainy Sunday evening in Rochester.

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring.

I used to pride myself on being impervious to the sentimentalities of soap opera, but when that loveliest of actresses, Rachel Gurney, of Upstairs, Downstairs, perished on the Titanic, I wept so convulsively and developed such anorexia that I had to be force-fed.

Nature, it appears, has been rather more bountiful to Paul's body and purse than to his intellect; above the ears, speaking bluntly, the boy is strictly tapioca.

I'm half Scotch-Irish on both sides, and when I lose my temper-brother, I go.

"In France," Marcel said with wintry dignity, "accidents occur in the bedroom, not the kitchen."