As I was saying to the landlord only this morning: 'You can't have everything'.
Guns aren't lawful; nooses give; gas smells awful. So you might as well live.
The ladies men admire, I've heard, Would shudder at a wicked word. Their candle gives a single light, They'd rather stay at home at night. They do not keep awake 'till three, Nor read erotic poetry. They never sanction the impure, Nor recognize an overture. They shrink from powders and from paints... So far I've had no complaints.
Hollywood money isn't money. It's congealed snow, melts in your hand, and there you are.
She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.
Said of her husband on the day their divorce became final: Oh, don't worry about Alan. . . . Alan will always land on somebody's feet.
The sweeter the apple, the blacker the core. Scratch a lover and find a foe!
For this my mother wrapped me warm, And called me home against the storm, And coaxed my infant nights to quiet, And gave me roughage in my diet, And tucked me in my bed at eight, And clipped my hair, and marked my weight, And watched me as I sat and stood: That I might grow to womanhood To hear a whistle and drop my wits And break my heart to clattering bits.
I fell into writing, I suppose, being one of those awful children who wrote verses. I went to a convent in New York-the Blessed Sacrament... I was fired from there, finally, for a lot of things, among them my insistence that the Immaculate Conception was spontaneous combustion.
Once, when I was young and true. Someone left me sad - Broke my brittle heart in two; And that is very bad. Love is for unlucky folk, Love is but a curse. Once there was a heart I broke; And that, I think, is worse.
Woman wants monogamy; Man delights in novelty. Love is woman's moon and sun; Man has other forms of fun. Woman lives but in her lord; Count to ten, and man is bored. With this the gist and sum of it, What earthly good can come of it?
My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He'll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He'll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart, -- And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
Excuse me, everybody, I have to go to the bathroom. I really have to telephone, but I'm too embarrassed to say so.
ridicule may be a shield, but it is not a weapon.
Her mind lives tidily, apart from cold and noise and pain. And bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.
When your bank account is so overdrawn that it is positively photographic, steps must be taken.
If I had any decency, I'd be dead. Most of my friends are.
It costs me never a stab nor squirm / To tread by chance upon a worm. / Aha, my little dear, / I say, Your clan will pay me back one day.
Why, after all, should readers never be harrowed? Surely there is enough happiness in life without having to go to books for it.
Four be the things I'd have been better without: love, curiosity, freckles and doubt.
Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
Well, there are always those who cannot distinguish between glitter and glamour . . . the glamour of Isadora Duncan came from her great, torn, bewildered, foolhardy soul.
[On Dashiell Hammett:] ... he is so hard-boiled you could roll him on the White House lawn.
Sometimes I think I'll give up trying, and just go completely Russian and sit on a stove and moan all day.
This living, this living, this living Was never a project of mine.
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