Man is troubled by what might be called the Dog Wish, a strange and involved compulsion to be as happy and carefree as a dog
I never quite know when I'm not writing. Sometimes my wife comes up to me at a party and says, "Dammit, Thurber, stop writing." She usually catches me in the middle of a paragraph.
He who hesitates is sometimes saved.
Dogs are obsessed with being happy.
Quick, name some towns in New Jersey
He knows all about art, but he doesn't know what he likes.
If a playwright tried to see eye to eye with everybody, he would get the worst case of strabismus since Hannibal lost an eye trying to count his nineteen elephants during a snowstorm while crossing the Alps.
Humor and pathos, tears and laughter are, in the highest expression of human character and achievement, inseparable.
Where most of us end up there is no knowing, but the hellbent get where they are going.
In an extensive reading of recent books by psychologists, psychoanalysts, psychiatrists, and inspirationalists, I have discovered that they all suffer from one or more of these expression-complexes: italicizing, capitalizing, exclamation-pointing, multiple-interrogating, and itemizing. These are all forms of what the psychos themselves would call, if they faced their condition frankly, Rhetorical-Over-Compensation.
I write humor the way a surgeon operates, because it is a livelihood, because I have a great urge to do it, because many interesting challenges are set up, and because I have the hope it may do some good.
I am not a cat man, but a dog man, and all felines can tell this at a glance - a sharp, vindictive glance.
When all things are equal, translucence in writing is more effective than transparency, just as glow is more revealing than glare.
Things have dropped from me. I have outlived certain desires; I have lost friends, some by death... others through sheer inability to cross the street.
It was Lisa, aged five, whose mother asked her to thank my wife for the peas we had sent them from our garden. 'I thought the peas were awful, I wish you and Mrs. Thurber were dead, and I hate trees,' said Lisa.
Salvador [Dali] was brought up in Spain, a country colored by the legends of Hannibal, El Greco, and Cervantes. I was brought up in Ohio, a region steeped in the tradition of Coxey's Army, the Anti-Saloon League, and William Howard Taft.
I loathe the expression “What makes him tick.” It is the American mind, looking for simple and singular solutions, that uses the foolish expression. A person not only ticks, he also chimes and strikes the hour, falls and breaks and has to be put together again, and sometimes stops like an electric clock in a thunderstorm.
The only rules comedy can tolerate are those of taste, and the only limitations those of libel.
It had only one fault. It was kind of lousy.
Sanity, soundness, and sincerity, of which gleams and strains can still be found in the human brain under powerful microscopes, flourish only in a culture of clarification, which is now becoming harder and harder to detect with the naked eye.
The difference between our decadence and the Russians is that while theirs is brutal, ours is apathetic.
We all have faults, and mine is being wicked.
Don't count your boobies until they are hatched.
Humourists lead... an existence of jumpiness and apprehension. They sit on the edge of the chair of Literature. In the house of Life they have the feeling that they have never taken off their overcoats.
There is something about a poet which leads us to believe that he died, in many cases, as long as 20 years before his birth.
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