Marriage Is Like Mushrooms: We Notice Too

I Didn't Go To Paris Until I Was A Grown-up In 1965. And When I Went To Paris, It Was The Paris I Knew Only From American Movies.

That’s One Of The Nice Things About Writing, Or Any Art; If The Thing’s Real, It Just Lives. All The Attendant Hoopla About It, The Success Over It Or The Critical Rejection—none Of That Really Matters. In The End, The Thing Will Survive Or Not On Its Own Merits. Not That Immortality Via Art Is Any Big Deal. Truffaut Died, And We All Felt Awful About It, And There Were The Appropriate Eulogies, And His Wonderful Films Live On. But It’s Not Much Help To Truffaut.

I Wish My Parents Had Raised Me In Manhattan Because I Think It's The Greatest Thing You Can Do For A Kid Is To Raise Them In New York City. I Can See This With My Own Children.

Once Munching Has Begun, Schopenhauer Held, The Human Will Cannot Resist Further Munching, And The Result Is A Universe With Crumbs Over Everything.

Can You Believe That? She Says I'm Not Leader Enough For Her. Who Was She Looking For... Hitler?