The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness.

I live in a house over there on the Island, and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the door I drove out of the dock because he says I’m his ideal.

I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.

The natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness.

There are no second acts in American lives.

A bad driving and not even trying!