Writing gives you the illusion of control, and then you realize it's just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff into it.
"David Raymond Sedaris" is an American humorist, comedian, author, and radio contributor. He was publicly recognized in 1992 when National Public Radio broadcast his essay "SantaLand Diaries". He published his first collection of essays and short stories, Barrel Fever, in 1994. His next five essay collections, Naked (book)/Naked (1997), Holidays on Ice (novel)/Holidays on Ice (1997), Me Talk Pretty One Day (2000), Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (2004), and When You Are Engulfed in Flames (2008), became New York Times Best Seller list/New York Times Best Sellers. In 2010, he released a collection of stories, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modest Bestiary. In 2013, Sedaris released his latest collection of essays, Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls.
By 2008, his books had sold seven million copies. Much of Sedaris' humor is ostensibly autobiography/autobiographical and self-deprecation/self-deprecating, and often concerns his family life, his middle-class upbringing in the suburbs of Raleigh, North Carolina, his Greek American/Greek heritage, jobs, education, Recreational drug use/drug use, and Obsessive-compulsive disorder/obsessive behaviors, and his life in France, London, and the English South Downs.
If you enjoy these quotes, be sure to check out other famous writers! More David Sedaris on Wikipedia.I love things made out of animals. It's just so funny to think of someone saying, 'I need a letter opener. I guess I'll have to kill a deer.
Why refer to Lady Crack Pipe or Good Sir Dishrag when these things could never live up to all that their sex implied.
At first, writing for The New Yorker was very scary to me. I couldn't imagine anything that I would write in that typeface.
Maybe I'll learn a trade. I've considered taxidermy. I always thought it was a shame you couldn't do that on people.
Shit is the tofu of cursing.
Anyone who watches even the slightest amount of TV is familiar with the scene: An agent knocks on the door of some seemingly ordinary home or office. The door opens, and the person holding the knob is asked to identify himself. The agent then says, "I'm going to ask you to come with me."
Seven beers followed by two Scotches and a thimble of marijuana and it's funny how sleep comes all on it's own.
My hands tend to be full enough dealing with people who hate me for who I am. Concentrate too hard on the millions of people who hate you for what you are and you're likely to turn into one of those unkempt, sloppy dressers who sag beneath the weight of the two hundred political buttons they wear pinned to their coats and knapsacks.
… [I] recall thinking that the computer would never advance much further than this. Call me naïve, but I seemed to have underestimated the universal desire to sit in a hard plastic chair and stare at a screen until your eyes cross.
I'm just a big liar.
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