You needn't tell me that a man who doesn't love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either. He's simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.

Hors d'oeuvres have always a pathetic interest for me; they remind me of one's childhood that one goes through wondering what the next course is going to be like - and during the rest of the menu one wishes one had eaten more of the hors d'oeuvres.

A little inaccuracy sometimes saves a ton of explanation.

Poverty keeps together more homes than it breaks up.

He is one of those people who would be enormously improved by death.

It's no use growing older if you only learn new ways of misbehaving yourself.