If, at the close of business each evening, I myself can understand what I’ve written, I feel the day hasn’t been totally wasted.

I cannot recall a more engaging passage in fiction, and I’ve been trying for almost eighteen seconds.

In my more pompous moments I like to think of myself as a writer rather than a humorist, but I suppose that’s merely the vanity of advancing age.

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.

We old roosters must be cautious. Don’t try to outwit your arteries.

I’m half Scotch-Irish on both sides, and when I lose my temper-brother, I go.

Do you know anything at all that nobody else knows or, for that matter, gives a damn about? If you do, then sit tight, because one of these days you’re going to Hollywood as a technical supervisor on a million dollar movie.

I loathe writing. On the other hand I’m a great believer in money.

I’ll dispose of my teeth as I see fit, and after they’ve gone, I’ll get along. I started off living on gruel, and by God, I can always go back to it again.

You’ll have to leave my meals on a tray outside the door because I’ll be working pretty late on the secret of making myself invisible, which may take me almost until eleven o’clock.