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Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.
Dorothy Parker
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Dorothy Parker
Age: 73 †
Born: 1893
Born: August 22
Died: 1967
Died: June 7
Columnist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Screenwriter
Songwriter
Writer
West End
Monmouth County
New Jersey
Dorothy Rothschild
Dot Rothschild
Dottie Rothschild
Years
Year
Memorable
Comes
Heads
Women
Birds
Littles
Plant
May
Ground
Back
Bird
Yapping
Little
Spring
Nasty
Every
Fool
Plants
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all men are the same age.
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The best way to avoid a hangover is to stay drunk.
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I'm never going to accomplish anything that's perfectly clear to me. I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more.
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Innocence is a desirable thing, a dainty thing, an appealing thing, in its place but carried too far, it is merely ridiculous.
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[Hospitalized and pressing the nurse's button before dictating letters to her secretary:] This should assure us of at least forty-five minutes of undisturbed privacy.
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Guido Natso is natso guido.
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Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song
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I'm not a writer with a drinking problem, I'm a drinker with a writing problem.
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If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second-greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first-greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy.
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Why, after all, should readers never be harrowed? Surely there is enough happiness in life without having to go to books for it.
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There was nothing separate about her days. Like drops on the window-pane, they ran together and trickled away.
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Hell's afloat in lover's tears.
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I give her sadness and the gift of pain, a new moon madness and a love of rain.
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She can sit up and beg, and she can give her paw — I don't say she will, but she can.
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There's life for you. Spend the best years of your life studying penmanship and rhetoric and syntax and Beowulf and George Eliot, and then somebody steals your pencil.
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She will never win him, whose words had shown she feared to lose.
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Oh, seek, my love, your newer way I'll not be left in sorrow. So long as I have yesterday, Go take your damned tomorrow!
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Women and elephants never forget.
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[On the ringing of her doorbell or telephone:] What fresh hell is this?
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Genius can write on the back of old envelopes but mere talent requires the finest stationery available.
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