Our trouble is that we drink too much tea. I see in this the slow revenge of the Orient, which has diverted the Yellow River down our throats.

Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.

My wife can’t cook at all. She made chocolate mousse. An antler got stuck in my throat.

Listen,” I told him. “Don’t be so tough so early in the morning. I’m sure you’ve cut plenty of people’s throats. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

If you want to cut your own throat, don’t come to me for a bandage.

You can’t stay married in a situation where you are afraid to go to sleep in case your wife might cut your throat.