Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
An artist is his own fault.
They say great themes make great novels
Book reviewers are little old ladies of both sexes.
But whats the use of being old if you cant be dumb?
Becoming the reader is the essence of becoming a writer.
Little old ladies of both sexes. Why do I let them bother me?
Well, men go to musicals. Women are the ones that buy the tickets for plays.
Never play cards with a man named Doc, and never eat at a place called Mom's.
Hot lead can be almost as effective coming from a linotype as from a firearm.
George Gershwin died on July 11, 1937, but I don’t have to believe it if I don’t want to.
I can get very depressed by a review that is unfair, unreasonable, and totally destructive.
America may be unique in being a country which has leapt from barbarism to decadence without touching civilization.
In every marriage the wife has to keep her mouth shut about at least one small thing her husband does that disgusts her.
Illinois is a state of suspended animation and the people live in hibernation from Oct. to whenever it ever gets warmer.
The trouble is people leave too much to luck. They get married and then trust to luck. They should be sure in the first place.
Socially, I never belonged to any class, rich or poor. To the rich I was poor, and to the poor I was poor pretending to be like the rich.
They say great themes make great novels. but what these young writers don't understand is that there is no greater theme than men and women.
Much as I like owning a Rolls-Royce, I could do without it. What I could not do without is a typewriter, a supply of yellow second sheets and the time to put them to good use.
So who's perfect? ... Washington had false teeth. Franklin was nearsighted. Mussolini had syphilis. Unpleasant things have been said about Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde. Tchaikovsky had his problems, too. And Lincoln was constipated.
When Caroline Walker fell in love with Julian English she was a little tired of him. That was in the summer of 1926, one of the most unimportant years in the history of the United States, and the year in which Caroline Walker was sure her life had reached a pinnacle of uselessness.
Our story opens in the mind of Luther L. (L for LeRoy) Fliegler, who is lying in his bed, not thinking of anything, but just aware of sounds, conscious of his own breathing, and sensitive to his own heartbeats. Lying beside him is his wife, lying on her right side and enjoying her sleep.