[When asked what was the inspiration for most of her work:] Need of money, dear.
They say of me, and so they should, It's doubtful if I come to good. I see acquaintances and friends Accumulating dividends And making enviable names In science, art and parlor games. But I, despite expert advice, Keep doing things I think are nice, And though to good I never come Inseparable my nose and thumb.
This living, this living, this living Was never a project of mine.
If, with the literate, I am Impelled to try an epigram, I never seek to take the credit; We all assume that Oscar said it.
Hell's afloat in lover's tears.
I know that there are things that never have been funny, and never will be. And I know that ridicule may be a shield, but it is not a weapon.
The ones I like are ‘cheque’ and ‘enclosed.’
If I had any decency, I'd be dead. Most of my friends are.
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.
Gertrude Stein did us the most harm when she said, 'You're all a lost generation.' That got around to certain people and we all said, 'Whee! We're lost.
... if this world were anything near what it should be there would be no more need of a Book Week than there would be a of a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.
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.
Why, after all, should readers never be harrowed? Surely there is enough happiness in life without having to go to books for it.
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.
I give her sadness and the gift of pain, a new moon madness and a love of rain.
I like to think of my shining tombstone. It gives me, as you might say, something to live for.
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.
When you have to apologize, it is well, I suppose, to get the thing over quickly.
The sun's gone dim, and the moon's gone black. For I loved him, and he didn't love back.
They say of me, and so they should, It's doubtful if I come to good.
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.
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