Apropos of Nothing

by Woody Allen

They asked me my goal in life. I said, to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race and see if it could be mass-produced in plastic.

If 80 percent of life is showing up, the other 80 percent, as Yogi Berra might’ve said, is chance.

(If you read the Passover story carefully, in the part about the ten plagues, right after locusts, frogs, and boils, they mention bikes.)

Where did all these thirsty comics come from? I never knew a monologist to keel over from dehydration. Actors play hours of Shakespeare without Hamlet or Lear sneaking behind a drape for a belt of Poland Spring water.

After I’m dead, I suspect very little will get on my nerves, even that annoying noise the neighbors make with their leaf blower.

Rather than live on in the hearts and mind of the public, I prefer to live on in my apartment.