Take me or leave me; or, as is the usual order of things, both.
Where’s the man that could ease a heart like a satin gown?
By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing.
And he vows his passion is,
Lady make note of this —
One of you is lying.
If all the girls attending [the Yale prom] were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.
Some men break your heart in two,
Some men fawn and flatter,
Some men never look at you;
And that cleans up the matter.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
So, you’re the man who can’t spell ‘fuck.'”
Dorothy Parker to Norman Mailer after publishers had convinced Mailer to replace the word with a euphemism, ‘fug,’ in his 1948 book, “The Naked and the Dead.
You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.
I had been fed, in my youth, a lot of old wives’ tales about the way men would instantly forsake a beautiful woman to flock around a brilliant one. It is but fair to say that, after getting out in the world, I had never seen this happen.”
[From a column dated November 17, 1928]
Time doth flit; oh shit.