“His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.”

“Don't look at me in that tone of voice.”

“Hold your pen and spare your voice.”

“By the time you swear you're his,Shivering and sighing.And he vows his passion is,Infinite, undying.Lady make note of this --One of you is lying.”

“And there was that poor sucker Flaubert rolling around on his floor for three days looking for the right word.”

“His books are exciting and powerful and — if I may filch the word from the booksy ones — pulsing.”

“My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He'll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He'll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart, -- And I wish somebody'd shoot him.”