S.J. Perelman, (February 1, 1904 - October 17, 1979)
Fate was dealing from the bottom of the deck.
For years I have let dentists ride roughshod over my teeth; I have been sawed, hacked, chopped, whittled, bewitched, bewildered, tattooed, and signed on again; but this is cuspid's last stand.
I guess I'm just an old mad scientist at bottom. Give me an underground laboratory, half a dozen atom-smashers, and a beautiful girl in a diaphanous veil waiting to be turned into a chimpanzee, and I care not who writes the nation's laws.
I loathe writing. On the other hand I'm a great believer in money.
Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin- it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring.
Philadelphia, a metropolis sometimes known as the City of Brotherly Love, but more accurately as the City of Bleak November Afternoons.
The dubious privilege of a freelance writer is he's given the freedom to starve anywhere.
The main obligation is to amuse yourself.
(YouTube video of a 1973 S.J. Perelman interview.)
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