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

You'll have to leave my meals on a tray outside the door because I'll be working pretty late on the secret of making myself invisible, which may take me almost until eleven o'clock.

I guess I'm just an old mad scientist at bottom. Give me an underground laboratory, half a dozen atom-smashers, and a beautiful girl in a diaphanous veil waiting to be turned into a chimpanzee, and I care not who writes the nation's laws.

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

The main obligation is to amuse yourself.

Fate was dealing from the bottom of the deck.

We old roosters must be cautious. Don't try to outwit your arteries.