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

He bit his lip in a manner which immediately awakened my maternal sympathy, and I helped him bite it.

All right, so call me Miss Cliche of 1960, but the thing about the married ones that always spooks me is how sweet and attentive they are at first, when they're on the prowl.

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.

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

To err is human, to forgive supine.

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.