God is a great humorist. He just has a slow audience to work with.

I write for a radio show that, no matter what, will go on the air Saturday at five o'clock central time. You learn to write toward that deadline, to let the adrenaline pick you up on Friday morning and carry you through, to cook up a monologue about Lake Wobegon and get to the theater on time.

You learn this great lesson of life: it's not about me. It's just not. The matter of talent-which seemed so important to you when you were young-is not of great importance. We're simply a conduit. We take things out of the air into us and put them in the form of stories. That's pretty much it.

Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people.

America of the future will be all malls connected by interstates. All because your parents no longer can their own tomatoes.

A person does feel sheepish picking on journalists, a class already so richly despised that if a planeload of them crashed in flames, most people would smile from pure reflex.

A good friend is a person who thinks you're one of the good eggs, even if he knows you're a little cracked.