The Fran Lebowitz Reader

by Fran Lebowitz

I occupy myself almost entirely with the art director—drawn to him largely because he knows the most words.

There is no such thing as inner peace. There is only nervousness or death. Any attempt to prove otherwise constitutes unacceptable behavior.

Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass. Your life story would not make a good book. Do not even try.

But alas, I do not rule the world and that, I am afraid, is the story of my life—always a godmother, never a God.

I love sleep because it is both pleasant and safe to use. Pleasant because one is in the best possible company and safe because sleep is the consummate protection against the unseemliness that is the invariable consequence of being awake. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Sleep is death without the responsibility.

life is something to do when you can’t get to sleep. Therefore, that which we call civilization is merely the accumulated debris of a chilling number of bad nights.