Alexander Humphreys Woollcott (January 19, 1887 – January 23, 1943) was an American critic and commentator for The New Yorker magazine and a member of the Algonquin Round Table.
Los Angeles is seven suburbs in search of a city.
I count it a high honor to belong to a profession in which the good men write every paragraph, every sentence, every line, as lovingly as any Addison or Steele, and do so in full regard that by tomorrow it will have been burned, or used, if at all, to line a shelf.
There's absolutely nothing wrong with Oscar Levant that a miracle can't fix.
Mrs. Patrick Cambell is an aged British battleship sinking rapidly and firing every available gun on her rescuers.
It was Mrs. Campbell, for instance, who, on a celebrated occasion, threw her companion into a flurry by describing her recent marriage as "the deep, deep peace of the double-bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise-longue. "
His huff arrived and he departed in it.
At 83, George Bernard Shaw's mind was perhaps not quite as good as it used to be, but it was still better than anyone else's.
The two oldest professions in the world — ruined by amateurs.
Babies in silk hats playing with dynamite.
I'm tired of hearing it said that democracy doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work. We are supposed to work it.
There's nothing wrong with Oscar Levant - nothing a miracle won't cure.
A hick town is one where there is no place to go where you shouldn't go.
Nothing risque, nothing gained.
Germany was the cause of Hitler as much as Chicago is responsible for the Chicago Tribune.
There is no such thing in anyone's life as an unimportant day.
Everything I like is either illegal, immoral or fattening.
All the things I really like to do are either immoral, illegal or fattening.
You haven't lived until you died in New York.
The English have an extraordinary ability for flying into a great calm.
It comes from the likes of you! Take what you can get! Grab the chances as they come along! Act in hallways! Sing in doorways! Dance in cellars!