It Takes Only One Child To Raze

Writers Who Have Nothing To Say Always Strain For Metaphors To Say It In.

God May Have Loved The Common People, But A Trip To Any Shopping Mall Suggests That He Made Far Too Many Of Them.

Thank God I'm Over The Hill. The Only Heat I Have Left Comes From Hot Flashes, My Promiscuity Is Confined To The Words "one Size Fits All," And I Buy My White Cotton Unmentionables At Boadicea's Retreat, Not Victoria's Secret. None Of The Things Men Do To Women Could Possibly Happen To Me Now Unless The U.s. Is Invaded By One Of Those New Russian Republics Whose Soldiers Aren't Fussy.

There Are So Many Different Kinds Of People In America, With So Many Different Boiling Points, That We Don't Know How To Fight With Each Other. The Set Piece That Shapes And Contains Quarrels In Homogeneous Countries Does Not Exist Here. The Frenchman Is An Expert On The Precise Gradations Of Espèce De And The Italian Knows Exactly When To Introduce The Subject Of His Other's Grave, But No American Can Be Sure How Or When Another Will React, So We Zap Each Other With Friendliness To Neutralize Potentially Dangerous Situations.

I Have A Professional Acquaintance Whose Recent Eyelid Job Has Left Her With A Permanent Expression Of Such Poleaxed Astonishment That She Looks At All Times As If She Had Just Read One Of My Books.