“Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.”

Don’t feel bad when I die; I’ve been dead for a long time.

I know this will come as a shock to you, Mr. Goldwyn, but in all history, which has held billions and billions of human beings, not a single one ever had a happy ending.

Misfortune, and recited misfortune especially, can be prolonged to the point where it ceases to excite pity and arouses only irritation.

It was written without fear and without research.

This is me apologizing. I am a fool, a bird-brain, a liar and a horse-thief. I wouldn’t touch a superlative again with an umbrella.

What ever beauty may be it has for its basis order and for its essence unity Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.

Three be the things I shall never attain: Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Said after she had been seriously ill: The doctors were very brave about it.

There’s life for you. Spend the best years of your life studying penmanship and rhetoric and syntax and Beowulf and George Eliot, and then somebody steals your pencil.

Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician.

Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.

I don’t know much about being a millionaire, but I’ll bet I’d be darling at it.

If all the girls attending [the Yale prom] were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

A hangover is the wrath of grapes.

The definition of eternity is two people and a ham.

The definition of eternity is two people and a ham.

I continue to form a column. If the column contains about twenty of these couples of metal, it will be capable of giving to the fingers several small shocks.

Don’t use your brain to play it, let your feelings guide your fingers.

I continue coupling a plate of silver with one of zinc, and always in the same order, and place between each of these couples a moistened disk. I continue to form a column. If the column contains about twenty of these couples of metal, it will be capable of giving to the fingers several small shocks.

The only thing that it is advisable to know in any language is the numerals; and even there, you can do a lot with the fingers.

My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.

Tracing my fingertips over these open wounds that you carelessly open up, just to be amused; You pick at my sorrow while all I do is care for you.

Every honest miller has a golden thumb.

I’d rather be more of the hippie country chick – as in, instead of pointing a finger, just maybe saying, ‘We’re all screw-ups. We’re all in this kind of together. We’re all just figuring this out.’