I don't have a name and I don't have a plot. I have the typewriter and I have white paper and I have me, and that should add up to a novel.

What can I tell you, except the stupid little I know?

There's a pretty woman for ever lucky man in the world: every man in the world is a lucky man if he only knew it, so why waste time?

Every man is correct in asking God why he is stuck with himself, and his rotten luck.

Yes, the idiot is indeed the good man, but only because he doesn't know any better.

Human greatness is a rather difficult thing to account for, and more often than not one is mistaken in one's hunches about somebody one has met.

What can a man do to move along in some kind of grace through his days and years?