I don't get nearly enough credit in life for the things I manage not to say.

It's not that he lacked poetry. But his poetry was of the body, not the mind. He spoke it in the way he moved, the way he held a hammer, rowed a boat, built a fire. I, on the other hand, was like a brain in a box, a beating heart in a coal scuttle.

I didn't seem to have that effect on anyone but it would have been a waste for both of us to be saints.

If there was ever a more perfect day in the history of time it isn't one I've heard about.

Osbert was the only one who didn't seem suspicious. He was so interested in the Decline of Western Civilization that he missed the version of it taking place under his nose.

Ask any comedian, tennis player, chef. Timing is everything.

Life is absolutely horrific, leading up to absolute horror.