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

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.

If, at the close of business each evening, I myself can understand what I've written, I feel the day hasn't been totally wasted.

To err is human, to forgive supine.

Fate was dealing from the bottom of the deck.

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

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