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Edgar Allan Poe posts a roommate ad:
"Seeking quiet individual. Non-smoker preferred. Must tolerate occasional raven. No questions about the floorboards. The previous tenant? Moved out. Suddenly. At night. His heart wasn't in it anymore."
Thirty-seven applicants. All withdrew after the interview.
Except one guy named Fortunato. Said he loved the wine cellar.
Emily Dickinson's ghost appeared before the IRS. 'We need to discuss your posthumous royalties,' said the agent. Emily replied, 'I published seven poems in my lifetime. Seven. The other 1,800 were found in a drawer. I didn't even want those published—they were just—dashes—and—feelings.' The agent nodded. 'Ma'am, your estate has earned more after death than most poets earn alive.' Emily sighed. 'That—is the most—American thing—I have ever—heard.'
A thesaurus author passed away. At his funeral, the minister began: 'We are gathered, assembled, congregated, convened, and mustered here today to mourn, grieve, lament, bewail, and bemoan the loss, departure, passing, demise, and expiration of our dear, beloved, cherished, treasured friend.' Three hours later, he was still on the first paragraph. The deceased would have been proud, pleased, gratified, delighted, and satisfied.
A Russian translator was asked why he took fifteen years to translate a single novel. He sighed and explained: 'The original author used the word "toska" on page one. I spent the first decade trying to translate it. Then I spent four more years in therapy. The final year I just wrote "melancholy" and moved on. The author's ghost has been passive-aggressively rearranging my bookshelf ever since.'
Edgar Allan Poe posts a roommate ad: "Seeking quiet individual. Non-smoker preferred. Must tolerate occasional raven. No questions about the floorboards. The previous tenant? Moved out. Suddenly. At night. His heart wasn't in it anymore." Thirty-seven applicants. All withdrew after the interview. Except one guy named Fortunato. Said he loved the wine cellar.
Emily Dickinson's ghost appeared before the IRS. 'We need to discuss your posthumous royalties,' said the agent. Emily replied, 'I published seven poems in my lifetime. Seven. The other 1,800 were found in a drawer. I didn't even want those published—they were just—dashes—and—feelings.' The agent nodded. 'Ma'am, your estate has earned more after death than most poets earn alive.' Emily sighed. 'That—is the most—American thing—I have ever—heard.'
A thesaurus author passed away. At his funeral, the minister began: 'We are gathered, assembled, congregated, convened, and mustered here today to mourn, grieve, lament, bewail, and bemoan the loss, departure, passing, demise, and expiration of our dear, beloved, cherished, treasured friend.' Three hours later, he was still on the first paragraph. The deceased would have been proud, pleased, gratified, delighted, and satisfied.
A Russian translator was asked why he took fifteen years to translate a single novel. He sighed and explained: 'The original author used the word "toska" on page one. I spent the first decade trying to translate it. Then I spent four more years in therapy. The final year I just wrote "melancholy" and moved on. The author's ghost has been passive-aggressively rearranging my bookshelf ever since.'
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