There is no such thing in anyone's life as an unimportant day.
The two oldest professions in the world — ruined by amateurs.
I'm tired of hearing it said that democracy doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work. We are supposed to work it.
All the things I really like to do are either immoral, illegal or fattening.
To all things clergic I am allergic.
Many of us spend half of our time wishing for things we could have if we didn't spend half our time wishing.
At 83, George Bernard Shaw's mind was perhaps not quite as good as it used to be, but it was still better than anyone else's.
His huff arrived and he departed in it.
One listens to one's lawyer prattle on as long as one can stand it and then signs where indicated.
The scenery in the play was beautiful, but the actors got in front of it.
The English have an extraordinary ability for flying into a great calm.
Everything I like is either illegal, immoral or fattening.
Nothing risque, nothing gained.
Reading Proust is like bathing in someone else's dirty water.
You haven't lived until you died in New York.
A hick town is one where there is no place to go where you shouldn't go.
It comes from the likes of you! Take what you can get! Grab the chances as they come along! Act in hallways! Sing in doorways! Dance in cellars!
I count it a high honor to belong to a profession in which the good men write every paragraph, every sentence, every line, as lovingly as any Addison or Steele, and do so in full regard that by tomorrow it will have been burned, or used, if at all, to line a shelf.
Today just might be the best day to start seriously thinking about quitting smoking.
Los Angeles is seven suburbs in search of a city.
Mrs. Patrick Cambell is an aged British battleship sinking rapidly and firing every available gun on her rescuers.
A broker is a man who runs your fortune into a shoestring.
There's absolutely nothing wrong with Oscar Levant that a miracle can't fix.
It was Mrs. Campbell, for instance, who, on a celebrated occasion, threw her companion into a flurry by describing her recent marriage as "the deep, deep peace of the double-bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise-longue."
Once in pre-war days, when curiously-bonneted women drivers were familiar sights at the taxi-wheels, I cried out to one in my dismay: "Is there no speed limit in this mad city?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur," she answered sweetly over her shoulder, "but no one has ever succeeded in reaching it."
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