Quotes by Oliver Herford

“The Irish are a fair people- they never speak well of one another”

“The Irish are hearty, the Scotch plausible, the French polite, the Germans good-natured, the Italians courtly, the Spaniards reserved and decorous - the English alone seem to exist in taking and giving offense”

“The Irish say your trouble is their trouble and your joy their joy? I wish I could believe it; I am troubled, Im dissatisfied, Im Irish”

“The English are not happy unless they are miserable, the Irish are not at peace unless they are at war, and the Scots are not at home unless they are abroad”

“Our Irish blunders are never blunders of the heart.”

“Even when they have nothing, the Irish emit a kind of happiness, a joy.”

“I suffer from Irish-Catholic guilt. Guilt is a good reality check. It keeps that do what makes you happy thing in check.”

“A womans mind is cleaner than a man s: She changes it more often.”

“Darling: the popular form of address used in speaking to a member of the opposite sex whose name you cannot at the moment remember.”

“Modesty: the gentle art of enhancing your charm by pretending not to be aware of it.”

“Age, like distance lends a double charm.”

“There is no time like the pleasant.”

“What is my loftiest ambition? Ive always wanted to throw an egg at an electric fan.”

“When I go abroad I always sail from Boston because it is such a pleasant place to get away from”

“Only the young die good.”

A kiss is a course of procedure cunningly devised, for the mutual stopage of speech at a moment when words are superfluous.

I heard a bird sing in the dark of December. A magical thing. And sweet to remember. We are nearer to Spring than we were in September. I heard a bird sing in the dark of December.

Cat: a pygmy lion who loves mice, hates dogs, and patronizes human beings.

I sometimes think the Pussy-Willows greyAre Angel Kittens who have lost their way,And every Bulrush on the river bankA Cat-Tail from some lovely Cat astray.

At evening when the lamp is lit,The tired Human People sitAnd doze, or turn with solemn looksThe speckled pages of their books.Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowlAnd in the Shadows softly growl,And roam about the farthest floorWhere Kitten never trod before.And, crouching in the jungle damp,I watch the Human Hunter’s camp,Ready to spring with fearful roarAs soon as I shall hear them snore.And then with stealthy tread I crawlInto the dark and trackless hall,Where neath the Hat-trees shadows deepUmbrellas fold their wings and sleep.A cuckoo calls — and to their densThe People climb like frightened hens,And Im alone — and no one caresIn Darkest Africa — downstairs.