I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork.
The bonds of matrimony are like any other bonds - they mature slowly.
There are times when parenthood seems nothing more than feeding the hand that bites you.
Celibacy is the worst form of self-abuse.
Confession is good for the soul only in the sense that a tweed coat is good for dandruff - it is a palliative rather than a remedy.
Words fashioned with somewhat over precise diction are like shapes turned out by a cookie cutter.
Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.
The satirist shoots to kill while the humorist brings his prey back alive and eventually releases him again for another chance.
When I can no longer bear to think of the victims of broken homes, I begin to think of the victims of intact ones.
The universe is like a safe to which there is a combination. But the combination is locked up in the safe.
Murals in restaurants are on a par with the food in museums.
The murals in restaurants are on par with the food in museums.
Who of us is mature enough for offspring before the offspring themselves arrive? The value of marriage is not that adults produce children but that children produce adults.
It is the final proof of God's omnipotence that he need not exist in order to save us.
Pain is the question mark turned like a fishhook in the human heart.
Let us hope, that a kind Providence will put a speedy end to the acts of God under which we have been laboring.
We must love one another, yes, yes, that's all true enough, but nothing says we have to like each other.
The tuba is certainly the most intestinal of instruments, the very lower bowel of music.
