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 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.

The fact is that all of us have only one personality, and we wring it out like a dishtowel. You are what you are.

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

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

Santa Barbara people are conservative-not like in L.A., where everybody wears rhinestones on their glasses to show that they own an airplane factory.

The dubious privilege of a freelance writer is he’s given the freedom to starve anywhere.