What a different world it was when I first sailed for Europe in 1930, with my mother, sister, and brother to spend six months abroad.

Trying to make order out of my life was like trying to pick up a jellyfish.

Throughout my career, I was to be cast as a frontier girl, an aristocrat, an Arabian, a Eurasian, a Polynesian, and a Chinese.

I suppose life is a little like that, isn't it, a message in a bottle pitched out to sea, to be carried by the winds and the tides, washing up on the beaches we could never imagine.

When I met Jack Kennedy, he was a serious young man with a dream. He was not a womanizer, not as I understood the term.

In the months leading up to World War II, there was a tendency among many Americans to talk absently about the trouble in Europe. Nothing that happened an ocean away seemed very threatening.

When my mood was high, I seemed normal, even buoyant. I felt smarter. I had secrets. I could see God in a light bulb

I admire anyone who rids himself of an addiction.

A romantic, I think, picks the rose and is careless with the thorn.

The things we ignore often come back to us in our sleep.

Wealth, beauty, and fame are transient. When those are gone, little is left except the need to be useful.

A picture held us captive. And we could not get outside it, for it lay in our language and language seemed to repeat it to us inexorably.

Air travelers, of course, are famous for their hubris. They carry on too many bags and use the restroom when the seat-belt sign is on.

I thought, well, why am I giving up on my primary dream to work doubly hard, to do something as an alternative to what it really still want to?

It is a company's customers who effectively control what it can and cannot do.

An artist makes a painting, and nobody bugs him or her about it. It's just you and your painting. To me, that's the way it should be with film as well.

It takes just as little time to see the positive side of life as it does the negative side.

He was too young to know that, in any novel with a reasonable amount of forethought, there were no coincidences.

Photography's about the surface, what's happening at the top of the sea. Literature's about all the stuff below.

The perfume of natures does not usually come forth without bruising.

Why does one exist? That's not my problem. One does exist. The thing to do is to take no notice but go at it on the run and to keep on going right on until you die.