The wrinkles in my brow, The furrows in my face, Say, limping age will lodge him now Where youth must give him place.

As ye of clay were cast by kind, So shall ye waste to dust.

My lusts they do me leave, My fancies all be fled, And tract of time begins to weave Grey hairs upon my head.

For age with stealing steps Hath clawed me with his crutch

My hand and pen are not in plight, As they have been of yore.

I loathe that I did love, In youth that I thought sweet

I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.

You don’t have to say everything to be a light. Sometimes a fire built on a hill will bring interested people to your campfire.

at last he understood that he has always been forgiven and worthy of love, and that no one could take that from him, that not even he could take that from himself.

A fig for partridges and quails, ye dainties I know nothing of ye; But on the highest mount in Wales Would choose in peace to drink my coffee.

We're living in an unprecedented day (when) evil is no longer evil. We've changed the terminology-- iniquity is now infirmity; wickedness is now weakness; devilry is now deficiency.

Short-story writing requires an exquisite sense of balance. Novelists, frankly, can get away with more. A novel can have a dull spot or two, because the reader has made a different commitment.

If you take my sayings and explode them in the air, they remain only sayings. But if you fit them together in their correct places, you will have the whole story.

Marilyn Monroe never sold a platinum album. And more people know my music than what I look like.

I'd love to do a musical. I have a little list of them in my head.

Satire lies about literary men while they live and eulogy lies about them when they die.