I Think The Satirist Is Always Basically

A Man's Got To Work For More Than Himself And His Kids To Feel Right

It's Rather Grisly, Isnt It, How Soon A Living Man Becomes Nothing More Than A Collection Of Stocks And Bonds And Debts And Real Estate?

Women Hock Their Jewels And Their Husbands' Insurance Policies To Acquire An Unaccustomed Shade In Hair Or Crêpe De Chine. Why Then Is It That When Anyone Commits Anything Novel In The Arts He Should Be Always Greeted By This Same Peevish Howl Of Pain And Surprise? One Is Led To Suspect That The Interest People Show In These Much Talked Of Commodities, Painting, Music, And Writing, Cannot Be Very Deep Or Very Genuine When They So Wince Under An Unexpected Impact.

A Man Is Never More His Single Separate Self Than When He Sets Out On A Journey.

This Ain't A War... It's A Goddam Whorehouse.