This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it.

The tears that kept Buttercup company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk. Those were noisy and hot; they pulsed. These were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn’t good enough. She was seventeen, and every male she’d ever known had crumbled at her feet and it meant nothing. The one time it really mattered, she wasn’t good enough.

She loves you," the Prince cried. "She loves you still and you love her, so think of that--think of this too: in all this world, you might have been happy, genuinely happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, not really, no matter what the storybooks say, but you could have had it, and so, I would think, no one will ever suffer a loss as great as you.

Cynics are simply thwarted romantics.

Being a screenwriter is not enough for a full creative life.

When was the last time you read a book? The truth now. And picture books don't count-I mean something with print in it.

Never argue with your wife about hostility when she's a certified Freudian.