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To a friend who asked her if she liked her hair:
"Lovely. I can't wait for mine to go gray so I can have it made blue."

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De Profundis

Oh, is it, then, Utopian
To hope that I may meet a man
Who'll not relate, in accents suave,
The tales of girls he used to have?

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Ballade at Thirty-Five

...Princes, never I'd give offense,
Won't you think of me tenderly?
Here's my strength and my weakness, gents -
I loved them until they loved me.

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To a neighbour who tolder her her dog was a female:
"I always call dogs 'he'. It don't do to notice everything."

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Oscar Wilde

If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.

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Her locks had been so frequently and so drastically brightened and curled that to caress them, one felt, would be rather like running one's fingers through julienne potatoes.

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Charles Dickens

Who call him spurious and shoddy
Shall do it o'er my lifeless body.
I heartily invite such birds
To come outside and say those words!

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Of the Yale prom:
"If all those sweet young things were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised."

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Did you ever realise there are just no dogs in Philadelphia? Oh, what an ugly place.

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Commenting on how she was refused admittance at the Casino in Monte Carlo for not wearing stockings:
"So I went and found my stockings and lost my shirt."

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On hearing the door bell or telephone ringing:
"What fresh hell is this?"

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...Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

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On finding herself a guest at a private house:
"I knew it would be terrible. Only I didn't think it would be as bad as this. This isn't just plain terrible; this is fancy."

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On being warned by her doctor that if she didn't stop drinking she would be dead within a month:
"Promises, promises!"

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Time doth flit,
Oh shit!

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Sure, you make Money writing on the coast, and God knows you earn it, but that money is like so much compressed snow. It goes so fast it melts in your hand.

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On being told that Harold Ross had called her on her honeymoon demanding belated copy:
"tell him I've been too fucking busy - or vice versa."

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To a supercilious youth who said he "simply couldn't bear fools":
"How odd. Your mother could apparently."

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Paying her last respects to Scott Fitzgerald as eh lay in an undertaker's parlor in Los Angeles, and quoting the words of a mourner at the funer of Jay Gatsby:
"The poor son-of-a-bitch!"

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Women who live alone in small residential hotels throughout the United States have plenty of money and plenty of time: their only occupation is to spend one and kill the other.

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Hemmingway avoids New York, for he has the most valuable asset an artist can possess - the fear of what he knows is bad for him.

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When the New Yorker editor, Harold Ross, asked her why she hadn't been to the office during the week to write her usual piece:
"Someone was using the pencil."

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Time doth flit,
Oh shit!

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Did you ever realise there are just no dogs in Philadelphia? Oh, what an ugly place.

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Her own epitaph:
"Excuse My Dust"

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John Huston is doing something called, very simply, The Bible. Now you must admit that's a big job. I think he's going to stop with Moses because he can't stand another moment - he is playing Moses, you see.

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Partial Comfort

Whose love is given over-well
Shall look on Helen's face in hell,
Whilst they whose love is thin and wise
May view John Knox in paradise.

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The ugliest modern gesture - that of a man looking at his wrist-watch!

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Of the 1930s:
"They were progressive days. We thought we were going to make the world better - I forget why we thought it, but we did."

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Of a mongrel:
"All too obviously, it was the living souvenir of a mother who had never been able to say no."

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