Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.
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Groucho Marx
Julius Henry Marx (October 2, 1890 – August 19, 1977), known professionally as Groucho Marx (/ˈɡraʊtʃoʊ ˈmɑːrks/), was an American writer, comedian, stage, film and television star. He was known as a master of quick wit and is widely considered one of the best comedians of the modern era. His rapid-fire, often impromptu delivery of innuendo-laden patter earned him many admirers and imitators. He made 13 feature films with his siblings the Marx Brothers, of whom he was the third-born. He also had a successful solo career, most notably as the host of the radio and television game show You Bet Your Life. His distinctive appearance, carried over from his days in vaudeville, included quirks such as an exaggerated stooped posture, glasses, cigar, and a thick greasepaint mustache and eyebrows. These exaggerated features resulted in the creation of one of the world's most ubiquitous and recognizable novelty disguises, known as Groucho glasses: a one-piece mask consisting of horn-rimmed glasses, large plastic nose, bushy eyebrows and mustache. 2Early life Julius Marx was born on October 2, 1890, in Manhattan, New York City. Marx stated that he was born in a room above a butcher's shop on East 78th Street in Manhattan, New York City, "Between Lexington & 3rd", as told to Dick Cavett in a 1969 television interview. The Marx children grew up on East 93rd Street off Lexington Avenue in a neighborhood now known as Carnegie Hill on the Upper East Side of the borough of Manhattan, in New York Cit
I only cite these examples to show that it’s all too true—no one is completely unhappy at the failure of his best friend.
The trouble with writing a book about yourself is that you can’t fool around. If you write about someone else, you can stretch the truth from here to Finland. If you write about yourself the slightest deviation makes you realize instantly that there may be honor among thieves, but you are just a…
The following morning I sent the club a wire stating, PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON'T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT ME AS A MEMBER.
Thanks for the potatoes. Would have thought you’d stuck a piece of butter in each one. They were very nice potatoes.
Your producer, who you say idolizes me, is obviously a brilliant fellow.
An actor should always keep his mouth shut.
Despite his obvious deficiencies, I can truly say that his entire organization (to say nothing of me) loves him with the same fervor that is usually reserved for men like Stalin, Hitler and Torquemada.
The amount of manure that was spread over that auditorium would solve Krushchev’s fertilizer problem for the next ten years.
I will be home in another ten days and will reveal many things that will make your hair stand on end—assuming that you still have any.
My knowledge of art is infinitesimal. I know that Rembrandt was deaf (no, that was Beethoven). I know that Van Gogh got hungry one day and cut off his own ear and that Toulouse Lautrec walked around on his knees. And that’s about it.
Corresponding with you is like writing letters to an empty coal mine or an aching void.
I am sending you a photograph of myself at the age of seven. You will probably say to yourself, ‘Why the cigar?’ That’s a very good question. Actually, the cigar is a phony. So is this mustache and, to wrap it all up neatly, so am I.
Left alone in the dismal lobby, I would totter into the creaking elevator and, with a faintly arthritic walk, limp to my suite of one room, there to fortify myself with a glass of Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic double.
My predictions are usually accurate. I was the fellow who said there would be no market crash in 1929.