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

Where would the Rockefellers be today if old John D. had gone on selling short-weight kerosene ... to widows and orphans instead of wisely deciding to mulct the whole country.

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

To err is human, to forgive supine.

Only the scenario writers are exempt. These are tied between the tails of two spirited Caucasian ponies, which are then driven off in opposite directions. This custom is called a conference.

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

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.