Garrison Keillor
Garrison Keillor
Gary Edward "Garrison" Keilloris an American author, storyteller, humorist, radio actor, voice actor, and radio personality. He is known as creator of the Minnesota Public Radio show A Prairie Home Companion, which he hosted from 1974 to 2016. Keillor created the fictional Minnesota town Lake Wobegon, the setting of many of his books, including Lake Wobegon Days and Leaving Home: A Collection of Lake Wobegon Stories. Other creations include Guy Noir, a detective voiced by Keillor who appeared in A...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionRadio Host
Date of Birth7 August 1942
CityAnoka, MN
CountryUnited States of America
I love rhymes; I love to write a poem about New York and rhyme 'oysters' with 'The Cloisters.' And 'The lady from Knoxville who bought her brassieres by the boxful.' I just feel a sort of small triumph.
Face it: a nation that maintains a 72% approval rating on George W. Bush is a nation with a very loose grip on reality.
A good friend is a person who thinks you're one of the good eggs, even if he knows you're a little cracked.
Jesus said the meek would inherit the earth, but so far all we've gotten is Minnesota and North Dakota.
When you're in your 20s, your 30s, even, you have - at least, I had - vast ambitions, and you sit around mooning about these things, and you're depressed, because you haven't done them. And it takes you a long time to come to the realization that if you can't be John Updike, well, then, you can't.
I love New York, and I'm drawn to a certain intensity of life, but I've just never felt like I want to escape from the Midwest. A writer lives a great deal in his own head, and so one intuitively finds places where your head is more clear. New York for me is one of those places.
I hear a little firecracker go off when you come up with a good rhyme.
I can write anywhere. I write in airports. I write on airplanes. I've written in the back seats of taxis. I write in hotel rooms. I love hotel rooms. I just write wherever I am whenever I need to write.
I talk in subjects and verbs, and sort of wind around in concentric circles until I get far enough away from the beginning so that I can call it the end, and it ends.
Your car, comfort though it be, this little den and dining room on wheels, is a prison that deadens your senses, and to feel wholly alive you must go for a walk.
Humor needs to come in under cover of darkness, in disguise, and surprise people.
The great unrequited love tears open your heart to the beauty of the world, its small rivers and upland meadows. It also makes you kinder to the next hundred thousand persons who cross your path.
People always are encouraging about a terrible loss, so that sometimes the loser would like to strangle them.
This is the big reason most humorists fail. Drunks don't read books.