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

I cannot recall a more engaging passage in fiction, and I've been trying for almost eighteen seconds.

One stifling summer afternoon last August, in the attic of a tiny stone house in Pennsylvania, I made a most interesting discovery: the shortest, cheapest method of inducing a nervous breakdown ever perfected. In this technique..., the subject is placed in a sharply sloping attic heated to 340 F and given a mothproof closet known as the Jiffy-Cloz to assemble.

The main obligation is to amuse yourself.

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.

In my more pompous moments I like to think of myself as a writer rather than a humorist, but I suppose that's merely the vanity of advancing age.

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