I happen to think nearly everybody – especially those one might find in the odd issue of ‘People’ magazine, including me – is frightfully boring, especially me. And Tom Cruise. Tom and I are alike in only this way.
BERKELEY BREATHEDKeep in mind that in 1985, I had a potential readership of over 50 million Americans. At that time, a good portion of those were under 30.
More Berkeley Breathed Quotes
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I was never asked to join the Editorial Cartoonists Of America. No fraternity would have me in college, either. I think they know something.
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I started as a news photographer at the University Of Texas’ Daily Texan.
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The fan letters were mostly answered by professional people that’d done them for a living. And I didn’t have any daily connection with their response to my work. I didn’t have a relationship with my audience. And every artist should have it.
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I can say that even in the midst of my most cynical comic stripping: Opus shone through with a bit of heart, anchoring the ugly proceedings with a comforting pull of emotion.
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If I could have drawn a cat yelling for lasagna every day for 15 years and have them pay me $30 million to do so, I would have.
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A turkey which was no doubt a lively, intelligent bird… a social being… capable of actual affection… nuzzling its young with almost human- like compassion. Anyway, it’s dead and we’re gonna eat it. Please give our respects to its family.
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I’d be a Libertarian, if they weren’t all a bunch of tax-dodging professional whiners.
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It was a huge challenge to learn digital painting well enough so that computers don’t pop into mind when one sees one.
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Liberal, shmiberal. That should be a new word. Shmiberal: one who is assumed liberal, just because he’s a professional whiner in the newspaper.
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It’s not terribly dignified to have anyone seeing one laugh at one’s own material.
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Dear Lord, I’ve been asked, nay commanded, to thank Thee for the Christmas turkey before us…
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He comic page is dying; I didn’t want to go with it.
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Irony can elude the genius among us, sometimes.
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I’ll confess right here that I secretly wish I’d have drawn a strip about a little boy with a fake tiger, going for adventures throughout the universe in spaceships of his imagination.
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I drew the last image ever of Opus at midnight while Puccini was playing and I got rather stupid. Thirty years. A bit like saying goodbye to a child – which is ironic because I was never, never sentimental about him as many of his fans were.
BERKELEY BREATHED