Anthologists are lazy fellows who like to spend a quiet evening at home raiding good books.
The affair between Margot Asquith and Margot Asquith will live as one of the prettiest love stories in all literature.
It may be that this autobiography [Aimee Semple McPherson's] is set down in sincerity, frankness, and simple effort. It may be, too, that the Statue of Liberty is situated in Lake Ontario.
Why, after all, should readers never be harrowed? Surely there is enough happiness in life without having to go to books for it.
I like to think of my shining tombstone. It gives me, as you might say, something to live for.
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?
The plot is so tired that even this reviewer, who in infancy was let drop by a nurse with the result that she has ever since been mystified by amateur coin tricks, was able to guess the identity of the murderer from the middle of the book.
I give her sadness and the gift of pain, a new moon madness and a love of rain.
She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.
In the pathway of the sun, In the footsteps of the breeze, Where the world and sky are one, He shall ride the silver seas, He shall cut the glittering wave. I shall sit at home, and rock; Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock; Brew my tea, and snip my thread; Bleach the linen for my bed. They will call him brave.
Prince or commoner, tenor or bass, Painter or plumber or never-do-well, Do me a favor and shut your face - Poets alone should kiss and tell.
[To woman bragging about having kept her husband for seven years:] Don't worry, if you keep him long enough, he'll come back in style.
The sun's gone dim, and the moon's gone black. For I loved him, and he didn't love back.
When you have to apologize, it is well, I suppose, to get the thing over quickly.
They say of me, and so they should, It's doubtful if I come to good.
Travel, trouble, music, art, a kiss, a frock, a rhyme -- I never said they feed my heart, but still they pass my time.
[On Dashiell Hammett:] ... he is so hard-boiled you could roll him on the White House lawn.
I shudder at the thought of men.... I'm due to fall in love again
Benchley and I had an office in the old Life magazine that was so tiny, if it were an inch smaller it would have been adultery.
Tonstant Weader fwowed up.
Sometimes I think I'll give up trying, and just go completely Russian and sit on a stove and moan all day.
Out in Hollywood, where the streets are paved with Goldwyn, the word "sophisticate" means, very simply, "obscene." A sophisticatedstory is a dirty story. Some of that meaning was wafted eastward and got itself mixed up into the present definition. So that a "sophisticate" means: one who dwells in a tower made of a DuPont substitute for ivory and holds a glass of flat champagne in one hand and an album of dirty post cards in the other.
[From a window in the Writer's Building at MGM, which overlooked a cemetery:] Hello down there. It might interest you to know that up here we are just as dead as you are.
Hollywood is the one place on earth where you could die of encouragement.
She can sit up and beg, and she can give her paw — I don't say she will, but she can.
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