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.

I have the reputation for having read all of Henry James. Which would argue a misspent youth and middle age.

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.

A burden in the bush is worth two on your hands.

I was seized by the stern hand of Compulsion, that dark, unreasonable Urge that impels women to clean house in the middle of the night.

Beautiful things don't ask for attention.

A word to the wise is not sufficient if it doesn't make sense.