Top 55 Sloane Crosley Quotes

Everyone has been in a social situation where you say something and it goes unnoticed, then someone else says the same thing and everyone laughs a lot. You learn how to be more creative and whacky and amusing.

I definitely rediscovered reading for pleasure by devoting such a large swath of my time to sitting on airplanes. I am now painfully adept at removing my shoes so as to have the least amount of foot surface area touching an airport floor.

Alaska is what happens when Willy Wonka and the witch from Hansel and Gretel elope, buy a place together upstate, renounce their sweet teeth, and turn into health fanatics.

Our culture’s obsession with vintage objects has rendered us unable to separate history from nostalgia. People want heart. They want a chaser of emotion with their aesthetics.

I like to try to do a little work before I do anything in the morning, even if it’s a paragraph.

Everything in New York seems to merit preserving. If it’s not historical, it’s personal. If it’s not personal, it’s cultural. But you can’t. You can’t save everything. You just have to pack it up in your brain and take it with you when you go.

Juice cleansing has been all the rage for some time. And I used the word ‘rage’ advisedly; one must push a violent flood of liquidised vegetables and fruit through one’s system for at least three days in order to perform a ‘cleanse.’

I now know my right from my left and my up from my down. Unluckily, my terrible sense of direction remains. For me, to live in New York City is to never be able to meet someone on the northeast corner. It is to never ever make a smooth entrance, always to get caught looking lost on the street.

Some of the writers I admire who seem very, very funny and very emotional to me can develop a closeness with the reader without giving too much of themselves away. Lorrie Moore comes to mind, as does David Sedaris. When they write, the reader thinks that they’re being trusted as a friend.

I have a disproportionate amount of faith in the goodness of the world and that everything will actually work out okay.

Picture it in your mind’s nostril: you get in a cab in time to catch twin thugs named Vomit and Cologne assaulting a defenseless pine-tree air freshener.

My mother is a special education teacher but also an artist, and my father an advertising executive. They are about as wacky as you can get without being alcoholics.

You can’t possibly fathom the ins and outs of a prepubescent beauty treatment until you’ve felt the strange but exhilarating tingle of a cottage-cheese-and-Pop-Rocks facial.

I am starting to like L.A., but the concept of a place you have to get used to so much seems a little weird to me. I have been to many foreign cities where I didn’t have to acclimatize as much as I did to L.A.

Yes. I am writing full-time. Which is strange. It feels like not having a job.

Let me put it this way: I don’t feel as settled as I look. I think that’s true of everyone, probably. Except for Beyonce and Jay-Z. I don’t think they wake up and think, ‘Ugh, when’s it going to work out for us? Why can’t we catch a break?’ Aside from them, I’m pretty sure everyone’s life feels a lot less intentional.

There’s just no concept of layering a thick-sleeved sweater under a coat in L.A. A coat is more of a gesture than a necessity. You know, in case the temperature goes down to 55 degrees.

The world I describe is about how people live now. It’s not about zany people with unlimited, inexplicable funds in an apartment somewhere.

When you spin a globe and point to a city and actually go to that city, you build an allowance of missed opportunities on the back end.

As most doctors will tell you, cleansing is ridiculous. You know what’s been around longer than that state-of-the-art juicer? Your kidneys. And your liver. Still, the cleanse has recalibrated my definition of a splurge.

I use Ole Henriksen eye gel when I think of it, and go for facials when spa gift certificates appear as a professional thank-you or in a gift bag. Once ensconced in a facialist’s chair, I let myself be coaxed into all sorts of treatments, because I’m there already, so why not?

The trick to scrambled eggs is to remove half the milk from the container and shake what’s left as hard as you can, like a cocktail shaker, before you whisk it into the eggs.

For me, nothing brings out my ‘born yesterday’ idiotic qualities quite like having my photograph taken.

The reason that war is such a fascinating subject for writers is because it’s a revealer. Put a bunch of people in an adrenaline-fuelled, life-or-death situation and their fundamental behaviours are exposed, the scrim is taken away and the motivations behind each personality come out to play.

I do think New York prepares you for the crossection of personalities and realities on display when you leave the country, and I’d live somewhere else if I had a reason or burning-the-the-point-of-discomfort desire to do so.

Are there moments when I see unrequited crushes or ex-boyfriends slow dancing with their dates and kind of want to stab myself in the spleen with a salad fork? Yeah, sure.

In general, I prefer to record all traumas and save them for later, playing them over and over so they can haunt me for a disproportionate number of weeks to come. It’s very healthy.

I love to bake, so I made vanilla bean and blueberry muffins for sick hospital children. Just kidding! All of that is true except the sick children part.

I don’t understand how you can be a decent writer and not know people.

I was diagnosed with a severe temporal spatial deficit, a learning disability that means I have zero spatial relations skills. It was official: I was a genius trapped in an idiot’s body.

As most New Yorkers have done, I have given serious and generous thought to the state of my apartment should I get killed during the day.

For a long time I wanted to draw, but I could never get the proportions right. My still life sketches were the artistic equivalent of someone who has misjudged the space constraints of a postcard, the handwriting shrinking uncomfortably at the bottom.

The hardest thing is spending twelve hours a day accommodating the rest of the world, then going home at night and criticizing it. I would be curious about what I’d write if I didn’t have to worry about offending.

Every day of my adult life, I have worn at least one piece of jewelry from my maternal grandmother’s collection, all of which were manufactured by famed Danish silversmith Georg Jensen. To the naked eye, I am either a Jensen loyalist or a grandmother loyalist. Really I am just a Pretty Things loyalist.

I hope to one day co-sign a lease with another person but, well, it doesn’t plague me that I have yet to do so. Put it this way: I’ve never had to violently tug at my own pillow at 2 A.M. to get myself to stop snoring.

It takes a level of creative depression to hear ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ and weep.

Going to a museum is one of those inexplicably tiring things. You’re not actually doing anything, more shifting your weight from room to room than walking. And yet it is one of the more tiring things one can do, no matter how thrilled you are by the exhibits.

Because I am a horrible flincher, contact lenses are not an option. I’m always envious of contact-wearers. There are endless reasons to take off one’s glasses during the day and, as I have grown older, what I don’t see has become increasingly pronounced.

I write on weekends, on vacation, and, really – on deadline and on my floor. Both terrible for the back.

Unless you are a professional, you will find the tart to be a high-maintenance, unforgiving whistle-blower of a pastry.

Out of all artists, authors are the least trained for the spotlight. Wanting attention isn’t a requisite part of the package.

Being a writer is an endless study in human transition and lessons learned or forgotten or misapplied.

Suburbia is too close to the country to have anything real to do and too close to the city to admit you have nothing real to do.

I don’t really think of my essays as being about myself. I know it sounds insane, but I just don’t think of them as a memoir. They’re essays; they’re not an autobiography.

My grandmother was a kind of Scarsdale, New York, society woman, best known in her day as the author of the 1959 book ‘Growing Your Own Way: An Informal Guide for Teen-Agers’ – this despite being a person whose parenting style made Joan Crawford’s wire hangers look like pool noodles.

I attended an extremely small liberal arts school. There were approximately 1,600 of us roaming our New England campus on a good day. My high school was bigger. My freshman year hourly calorie intake was bigger.

The truth is, I wrote a novel when I was 23. It’s hideously bad. Truly rotten.

I think that most New Yorkers would object to calling me a New Yorker. I didn’t grow up here.

Personal technology has given us the freedom of being able to do whatever we want – and in the case of celebrities and athletes, whomever they want. But it can also serve as a humiliation jetpack.

There’s already a marriage clock, a career clock, a biological clock. Sometimes being a woman feels like standing in the lobby of a hotel, looking at the dials depicting every time zone in the world behind the front desk – except they all apply to you, and all at once.