I have lived eighty years of life and know nothing for it, but to be resigned and tell myself that flies are born to be eaten by spiders and man to be devoured by sorrow.

Do I consider myself sexy? It all depends on the way I’m feeling. When I’m happy inside, that’s when I feel most sexy.

Mickey Mouse popped out of my mind onto a drawing pad 20 years ago on a train ride from Manhattan to Hollywood at a time when business fortunes of my brother Roy and myself were at lowest ebb and disaster seemed right around the corner.

I sometimes give myself admirable advice, but I am incapable of taking it.

I have to live for others and not for myself: that’s middle-class morality.

I’m not trying to be sexy. It’s just my way of expressing myself when I move around.

I’ve never looked at myself and said that I need to be a certain way to be around a certain sort of people. I’ve always wanted to stay true to myself, and I’ve managed to do that. People have to accept that.

I have had more trouble with myself than with any other man.

If a man urge me to tell wherefore I loved him, I feel it cannot be expressed but by answering: Because it was he, because it was myself.

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