Where I grew up in Brooklyn, nobody committed suicide. Everyone was too unhappy.

I don't inhale because it gives you cancer, but I look so incredibly handsome with a cigarette that I can't not hold one.

Enthusiasm is a good engine, but it needs intelligence for a driver.

Should I marry W? Not if she won't tell me the other letters in her name. And what about her career? How can I ask a woman of her beauty to give up the Roller Derby? Decisions...

Maybe the poets are right. Maybe love is the only answer.

Your still searching for me in every woman. You'll always seek to duplicate what we had. You know it.

I've never been satisfied or even pleased with a film that I've done. I make them, I'm finished, I've never looked at one after. I don't like them because there's a big gap between what you conceive in your mind when you're writing and you don't have to meet the test of reality. You're home, you write and it's funny and beautiful and romantic and dramatic, and then you have to show up on a cold morning, and you don't have enough of this and this goes wrong and you make the wrong choice on something and you screwed up and you can't go back.