Quotes from Jean Shepherd

The hand of fate had dipped into the ragbag of humanity.

Randy lay there like a slug. It was his only defense.

The reality of what we really are is often times found in the small snips, way down at the bottom of things.

I had woven a tapestry of obscenity that as far as I know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan.

Semicolon, you dolt!

What the hell time is it?" muttered the old man. He was always an aggressive sleeper. Sleep was one of the things he did best, and he loved it. Some look upon sleep as an unfortunate necessary interruption of life; but there are others who hold that sleep is life, or at least one of the more fulfilling aspects of it, like eating or sex. Any time my old man's sleep was interrupted, he became truly dangerous.

Preparing to go to school was like getting ready for extended deep sea diving.

The Bumpuses were so low down on the evolutionary totem pole that they weren't even included in Darwin's famous family tree. They had inbred and ingrown and finally emerged from the Kentucky hills like some remnant of Attila the Hung's barbarian horde. Flick said that they had webbed feet and only three toes. It might have been true.

There are fewer things more thrilling in life than lumpy letters. That rattle.

Can you imagine 4,000 years passing, and you're not even a memory? Think about it, friends. It's not just a possibility. It's a certainty.

Kissel worked in Idleness the way other artists worked in clay or marble.

Everything comes to he who waits. I guess. At last, after at least 200 years of constant vigil, there was delivered to me a big, fat, lumpy letter. There are few things more thrilling in Life than lumpy letters. That rattle. Even to this day I feel a wild surge of exultation when I run my hands over an envelope that is thick, fat, and pregnant with mystery.

I have never understood why the pig is an animal whose name is used in derision. He is intelligent and kindly, often benevolent, in fact; in short, totally with it.

Our family always had its Christmas on Christmas Eve. Other less fortunate people, I had heard, opened their presents in the chill clammy light of dawn. Far more civilized, our Santa Claus recognized that barbaric practice for what it was.

Excelsior, you fatheads.

The joy of giving can uplift the saddened heart.

Dynamite was the milk of life to the average hillbilly of the day. He celebrated with it, feuded with it, and fished with it. The Sporting instinct runs strong in the hills. When the fishing season would open, the river would literally be aboil with TNT.

The show was over and you had a sinister feeling that out there in the darkness all over the country there were millions of kids—decoding.

But as the old truism goes, every man has his chance, and when yours comes you had better grab it.

What's all that stuff about torches? I didn't get no torch." "They must have given them to the front of the class," I answered. Little did I realize how right I was.

I was the victim of another American myth, namely that things can actually change for the better, that if you try hard enough you can transform the lead of your crummy self into some golden ideal.

Cold was something that was accepted, like air, clouds, and parents; a fact of Nature, and as such could not be used in any fraudulent scheme to stay out of school.

My mind, as is so often the case these days, was totally blank.

She also had this friend named The Asp, who whenever she was really in a tight spot would just show up and cut everybody's head off.