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

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 tried to resist his overtures, but he plied me with symphonies, quartets, chamber music, and cantatas.

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.

To err is human, to forgive supine.

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