Kin Hubbard is dead. To us folks that attempt to write a little humor his death is just like Edison's would be to the world of invention. No man in our generation was within a mile of him, and I am so glad that I didn't wait for him to go to send flowers. I have said it from the stage and in print for twenty years. Just think- only two lines a day, yet he expressed more original philosophy in 'em than all the rest of the paper combined. What a kick Twain and all that gang will get out of Kin.

You won't skid if you stay in a rut.

Why doesn't the fellow who says 'I'm no speechmaker' let it go at that instead of giving a demonstration?

When a fellow says, 'It ain't the money but the principle of the thing,' it's the money.

Biography is one of the new terrors of death.

We would only do a (Monty Python) reunion if Graham (Chapman) came back from the dead. So we're negotiating with his agent.

Gosto dos epitafios; eles sao, entre a gente civilizada, uma expressao daquele pio e secreto egoismo que induz o homem a arrancar a morte um farrapo ao menos d…