Robert Benchley |
Here are some of my favorite quotes, just to warm us up:
Benchley - "A freelance writer is a man who is paid per word, per piece, or perhaps."
Thurber - “You can fool too many of the people too much of the time.”
James Thurber |
Benchley - "Even nowadays a man can't step up and kill a woman without feeling just a bit unchivalrous."
Thurber - “With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and definite hardening of the paragraphs.”
Benchley's work was, 99% of the time, the classic humorous essay. Thurber's work ranged far more widely, from wistful to sardonic to straight-up reporting to literary analysis. (He wrote what I consider the best essay on Henry James' writing ever - "The Wings of Henry James", in the November 7, 1959 issue of the New Yorker.) And then there are his parables. Here, for our Thanksgiving entertainment, is "The Unicorn in the Garden", the obvious predecessor of "The Catbird Seat", and in both cases, one of the neatest ways of getting rid of someone unpleasant I have ever found. Not that any of us would be interested in that...
by James Thurber
reprinted from
Fables For Our Time
Once upon a sunny morning a man who sat in a breakfast nook
looked up from his scrambled eggs to see a white unicorn with a golden
horn quietly cropping the roses in the garden. The man went up to the
bedroom where his wife was still asleep and woke her. "There's a
unicorn in the garden," he said. "Eating roses." She opened one
unfriendly eye and looked at him.
"The unicorn is a mythical beast," she said, and turned her back on him.
The man walked slowly downstairs and out into the garden. The unicorn
was still there; now he was browsing among the tulips. "Here,
unicorn," said the man, and he pulled up a lily and gave it to him. The
unicorn ate it gravely. With a high heart, because there was a unicorn
in his garden, the man went upstairs and roused his wife again. "The
unicorn," he said,"ate a lily." His wife sat up in bed and looked at
him coldly. "You are a booby," she said, "and I am going to have you
put in the booby-hatch."
The man, who had never liked the words "booby" and
"booby-hatch," and who liked them even less on a shining morning when
there was a unicorn in the garden, thought for a moment. "We'll see
about that," he said. He walked over to the door. "He has a golden
horn in the middle of his forehead," he told her. Then he went back to
the garden to watch the unicorn; but the unicorn had gone away. The man
sat down among the roses and went to sleep.
As soon as the husband had gone out of the house, the wife
got up and dressed as fast as she could. She was very excited and there
was a gloat in her eye. She telephoned the police and she telephoned a
psychiatrist; she told them to hurry to her house and bring a
strait-jacket. When the police and the psychiatrist arrived they sat
down in chairs and looked at her, with great interest.
"My husband," she said, "saw a unicorn this morning." The
police looked at the psychiatrist and the psychiatrist looked at the
police. "He told me it ate a lily," she said. The psychiatrist
looked at the police and the police looked at the psychiatrist. "He
told me it had a golden horn in the middle of its forehead," she said.
At a solemn signal from the psychiatrist, the police leaped from their
chairs and seized the wife. They had a hard time subduing her, for she
put up a terrific struggle, but they finally subdued her. Just as they
got her into the strait-jacket, the husband came back into the house.
"Did you tell your wife you saw a unicorn?" asked the
police. "Of course not," said the husband. "The unicorn is a mythical
beast." "That's all I wanted to know," said the psychiatrist. "Take
her away. I'm sorry, sir, but your wife is as crazy as a jaybird."
So they took her away, cursing and screaming, and shut her
up in an institution. The husband lived happily ever after.
Moral: Don't count your boobies until they are hatched.
Have a Happy Thanksgiving, and may all your unicorns lead to high hearts.