“A little bad taste is like a nice dash of paprika.”

“I know that an author must be brave enough to chop away clinging tentacles of good taste for the sake of a great work. But this is no great work, you see.”

“...I have read but little of Madame Glyn. I did not know that things like "It" were going on. I have misspent my days. When I think of all those hours I flung away in reading William James and Santayana, when I might have been reading of life, throbbing, beating, perfumed life, I practically break down. Where, I ask you, have I been, that no true word of Madame Glyn's literary feats has come to me?But even those far, far better informed than I must work a bit over the opening sentence of Madame Glyn's foreword to her novel" "This is not," the says, drawing her emeralds warmly about her, "the story of the moving picture entitled It, but a full character study of the story It, which the people in the picture read and discuss." I could go mad, in a nice way, straining to figure that out....Well it turns out that Ava and John meet, and he begins promptly to "vibrate with passion." ......It goes on for nearly three hundred pages, with both of them vibrating away like steam launches."-Review of the book, It, by Elinor Glyn. Review title: Madame Glyn Lectures on "It," with Illustrations; November 26, 1927.”

“They say of me, and so they should,It's doubtful if I come to good.I see acquaintances and friendsAccumulating dividendsAnd making enviable namesIn science, art and parlor games.But I, despite expert advice,Keep doing things I think are nice,And though to good I never comeInseparable my nose and thumb.”

“Little WordsWhen you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf,Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds;And I can only stare, and shape my griefIn little words.I cannot conjure loveliness, to drownThe bitter woe that racks my cords apart.The weary pen that sets my sorrow downFeeds at my heart.There is no mercy in the shifting year,No beauty wraps me tenderly about.I turn to little words- so you, my dear,Can spell them out.”

“There's little in taking or givingThere's little in water or wineThis living, this living , this livingwas never a project of mine.Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse isthe gain of the one at the topfor art is a form of catharsisand love is a permanent flopand work is the province of cattleand rest's for a clam in a shellso I'm thinking of throwing the battlewould you kindly direct me to hell?”

“Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.”