by Pat Darnell
We all miss having our pupply around...
James Thurber | Retrieved HERE
At The New Yorker Thurber is known as Old Thurber. He pooh-poohs the tendency of art critics to breathe his name with that of Matisse and Picasso. But his drawings have long been taken seriously by advanced students of fantasy, and one sketch of a lady's alcoholic visions was hung (under the heading of Miracles and Anomalies) at the outstanding Fantastic Art-Dada-Surrealism show at Manhattan's Museum of Modern Art in 1936. Old Thurber, anything but pompous, once described himself as follows:
"THURBER, James, autobiographer, was born in Columbus, Ohio. . . . He began to write when he was ten years old (Horse Sandusky, the Intrepid Scout). . . . Quick to arouse, he is very hard to quiet, and people often just go away. . . . He never listens when anybody else is talking, preferring to keep his mind a blank until they get through so he can talk. . . . Two overcoats which he left in the New Yorker office last spring were stolen, or else he left them someplace else."
Read more: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,885210,00.html#ixzz0pk6s5qKi
One of Thurber's simpler secrets is the dismaying fact that the maddest laughter is often provoked by no laughing matter. Thus, one twin-bedded, book-reading wife asks of her mate, in the other bed: "What the hell ever happened to the old-fashioned love story?" Again, five assorted Thurber dogs group themselves on a grassy bank to watch a family of human beings pass: "There go the most intelligent of all animals."
Read more: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,885210,00.html#ixzz0pk7kvFuk