The only rules comedy can tolerate are those of taste, and the only limitations those of libel.

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.

Speed is scarcely the noblest virtue of graphic composition, but it has its curious rewards. There is a sense of getting somewhere fast, which satisfies a native American urge.

The past is an old armchair in the attic, the present an ominous ticking sound, and the future is anybody's guess.

Unless artists can remember what it was to be a little boy, they are only half complete as artist and as man.

Comedy has ceased to be a challenge to the mental processes. It has become a therapy of relaxation, a kind of tranquilizing drug.

Art – the one achievement of man which has made the long trip up from all fours seem well advised