“I blew my nose, blotted my eyes, buried as much of my face as I could in my handkerchief, and blurted out a feeble: "Sorry...something in my eye." The voice said: "Yes...beauty.”

“I'm extremely profane, unconsciously so, when I see something great for the first time; I don't know why, but beauty and profanity are related to me in the same way. It may be that I want to think of art in the vernacular, but I have no control over what comes out of my mouth when my eyes take in great beauty...it might just be the reason I avoid going to museums with elderly ladies.”

“Nevertheless, Los Angeles is my "Home, Sweet Home." I chose it, and, as goes the cliché, I've made my bed—but I'll be damned if I'll lie in it or, worse, culturally die in it!”

“I do, however, get along fine with apes and I have worked sack of potatoes in front of the camera. Trainers tell me they like my voice and that because I treat them as people they like me. Well, it’s easy to do, since some of them are people and easier to work with than some—people, I mean actors.”

“The story ends with a crack the actor Hans Conreid made on seeing my two hundred black and white pots. Said Hans, "You're one actor no one will ever be able to say he hasn't got a pot to..." End quote.”

“I’m always intrigued by my nonsensical concern with picking out a bunch of things that look exactly alike the ones that somehow I feel are the best and belong to me. It’s that same crazy urge or superstition, or whatever it is, that makes me open a Bible in a hotel room, hoping for some great happenstance spiritual word of advice. More often than not, I hit a long passage of begats and begots, which contain little inspiration other than the fact that procreation is the highest aim of life.”

“Do you ever rub your eyes and suddenly find you're awake and not asleep, as you'd grown to suspect you were?”