Heaven is not built of country seats
But little queer suburban streets.

(Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. "To the Little House ," st. 4.)

Of old all invitations ended
With the well-known R.S.V.P.,
But now our laws have been amended
The hostess writes B.Y.O.B.

(Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Thoughts on Being Invited to Dinner.)

Dancing is a wonderful training for girls, it's the first way you learn to guess what a man is going to do before he does it.

(Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Kitty Foyle, ch. 11 (1939).)

God made man merely to hear some praise
Of what he'd done on those Five Days.

(Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. "Fons et Origo.")

There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal adventure it is an experience of great social import. Even as the tranced swain, the booklover yearns to tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, intrudes it into telephone messages, and insists on his friends writing down the title of the find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once certain of his conquest, "I want you to love her, too!" It is a jealous passion also. He feels a little indignant if he finds that any one else has discovered the book, too.

(Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. "On Visiting Bookshops," Pipefuls, Doubleday (1920).)

Sleep, dear Sleep, sweet harlot of the senses,
Delilah of the spirit.

(Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Sleep.)

Life is a foreign language: all men mispronounce it.

(Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Thunder on the Left, ch. 14 (1925).)