the rich are different only because people treat them as if they were.

I would, however, start writing fiction about 10 years before I actually did, because it's such great fun to do, many times more creative than nonfiction.

I'm convinced that it's energy and humor. The two of them combined equal charm.

Heaven knows, I've exposed myself in my novels through the use of fantasy and imagination... now my new book is about what really happened to me... not my heroines.

It can't possibly last for years and browsing has its limits. Only a certain amount is healthy or wise.

My work caused me to interview hundreds of women about their lives and their problems.

I have only one reader - me. I'm the average reader. If I like it, that's all I worry about.

You can browse to your heart's content but it's hard work and not easy on the feet unless you do it through catalogs or the Internet, and I like to touch and try on the things I buy.

For my part, I think that the mystery is always greatest where there is the most - emptiness.

it is strange, is it not, how an accident of millimeter here, a millimeter there, makes one face so important.

Pm convinced that it's energy and humor. The two of them combined equal charm.

And when wind and winter hardenAll the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.

It makes a great difference in the force of a sentence whether a man be behind it or no.

I don't care if you're Republican or a Democrat or a Liberal, getting crucified for the way you think or believe, obviously if it's not hurting anyone, it's just Un-American.

The artist is a collector. Not a hoarder, mind you, there's a difference: Hoarders collect indiscriminately, artists collect selectively. They only collect things that they really love.

A broom sweeps clean, and itself becomes soiled; cleanse yourself of those offenses of which you may feel guilty.

Suppose no one asked a question. What would the answer be?

The truth of God's love is not that He allows bad things to happen, it's his promise that he will be there with us when they do.

We must admit that the divine banquet of the brain was, and still is, a feast with dishes that remain elusive in the blending, and with sauces whose ingredients are even now a secret.

The paternal and filial duties discipline the heart, and prepare it for the love of all mankind. The intensity of private attachment encourages, not prevents, universal benevolence.

One may as well go, as look into another man's house; because the eye may reach what the hand cannot.