Have you noticed that only in time of illness or disaster or death are people real?

For some time now the impression has been growing upon me that everyone is dead. It happens when I speak to people. In the middle of a sentence it will come over me: yes, beyond a doubt this is death. There is little to do but groan and make an excuse and slip away as quickly as one can.

Nothing remains but desire, and desire comes howling down Elysian Fields like a mistral.

I have discovered that most people have no one to talk to, no one, that is, who really wants to listen. When it does at last dawn on a man that you really want to hear about his business, the look that comes over his face is something to see.

A novel is what you call something that won't sell if you call it poems or short stories.

You can get all A's and still flunk life.

Why did God make woman so beautiful and man with such a loving heart?