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

I loathe writing. On the other hand I'm a great believer in money.

There are nineteen words in Yiddish that convey gradations of disparagement, from a mild, fluttery helplessness to a state of downright, irreconcilable brutishness. All of them can be usefully employed to pinpoint the kind of individuals I write about.

I have no truck with lettuce, cabbage, and similar chlorophyll. Any dietitian will tell you that a running foot of apple strudel contains four times the vitamins of a bushel of beans.

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

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

Nature, it appears, has been rather more bountiful to Paul's body and purse than to his intellect; above the ears, speaking bluntly, the boy is strictly tapioca.