A schedule so tight that it would only work if I didn't sleep on Monday nights.

Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot.

Coughing in the theater is not a respiratory ailment. It is a criticism.

I'm getting married in the morning! / Ding dong! the bells are gonna chime. / Pull out the stopper! Let's have a whopper! / But get me to the church on time!.

It's not a pretty face, I grant you. But underneath its flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character.

You write a hit the same way you write a flop.

The winter is forbidden till December, And exits March the second on the dot. By order summer lingers through September In Camelot.

Youth has many glories, but judgement is not one of them, and no amount of electronic amplification can turn a belch into an aria.

Stay close to the young... and a little rubs off.

Back home everyone said I didn't have any talent. They might be saying the same thing over here, but it sounds better in French.

You see what happens today. Women act like men and want to be treated like women.

There are no lungs like the ones that breathe poetry.

Yes, stop your beliefs for a few moments now and then and Be-Life.

plantitIt will sproutBut forget about the rustic festivitiesFor the explosive word falls harmlessly eternal throughthe compact generations

People say that writers write for money. From my own experience that's not true. I write for me. I publish for money.

We love to be hurt and we love to have our unhealing wounds opened and reopened again: we sit staring in the mirror of art, fascinated by our own deformities.

I've often been asked to run for office. I have no desire to do that, I would not want my time with the family or the company restricted because of the demands of an elected position.

I feel like the world stopped. And I got off...and then it started spinning again, but too fast for me to hop back on. I feel like I'm still trying to get a...to get some kind of foothold on living

None of us are too sensitive to live our purpose.

Minds are like oysters. They spoil if you pry them open.

I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.