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

Where would the Rockefellers be today if old John D. had gone on selling short-weight kerosene ... to widows and orphans instead of wisely deciding to mulct the whole country.

This medal (the National Book Award) together with my American Express card, will identify me worldwide ... except at Bloomingdale's.

There is such a thing as too much couth.

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.

I don't know where we're going or how we'll get there, but when we get there we'll be there - and that's something, even if it's nothing.

Only the scenario writers are exempt. These are tied between the tails of two spirited Caucasian ponies, which are then driven off in opposite directions. This custom is called a conference.