James Thurber
James Thurber
James Grover Thurberwas an American cartoonist, author, journalist, playwright, and celebrated wit. Thurber was best known for his cartoons and short stories, published mainly in The New Yorker magazine and collected in his numerous books. One of the most popular humorists of his time, Thurber celebrated the comic frustrations and eccentricities of ordinary people. In collaboration with his college friend Elliott Nugent, he wrote the Broadway comedy The Male Animal, later adapted into a film, which starred Henry Fonda and...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionCartoonist
Date of Birth8 December 1894
CityColumbus, OH
CountryUnited States of America
I am not a cat man, but a dog man, and all felines can tell this at a glance - a sharp, vindictive glance.
Boys are beyond the range of anybody's sure understanding, at least when they are between the ages of 18 months and 90 years.
There are two kinds of light - the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures.
Sanity, soundness, and sincerity, of which gleams and strains can still be found in the human brain under powerful microscopes, flourish only in a culture of clarification, which is now becoming harder and harder to detect with the naked eye.
Well, if I called the wrong number, why did you answer the phone?
Sophistication might be described as the ability to cope gracefully with a situation involving the presence of a formidable menace to one's poise and prestige (such as the butler, or the man under the bed - but never the husband).
There is no exception to the rule that every rule has an exception.
A drawing is always dragged down to the level of its caption.
The dog has seldom been successful in pulling man up to its level of sagacity, but man has frequently dragged the dog down to his.
I always begin at the left with the opening word of the sentence and read toward the right and I recommend this method.
I have lived in the East for nearly thirty years now, but many of my books prove that I am never very far away from Ohio in my thoughts, and that the clocks that strike in my dreams are often the clocks of Columbus.
Let me be the first to admit that the naked truth about me is to the naked truth about Salvador Dali as an old ukulele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts. Senor Dali has the jump on me from the beginning. He remembers and describes in detail what it was like in the womb. My own earliest memory is of accompanying my father to a polling booth in Columbus, Ohio, where he voted for William McKinley.
There is no safety in numbers, or in anything else.
With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and definite hardening of the paragraphs.