I'm an old weed. The more I'm cut down, the more I spring up again.

My costume helps me to express my conception of the average man, of almost any man, of myself. The derby, too small, is a striving for dignity. The mustache is vanity. The tightly buttoned coat and the stick and his whole manner are a gesture toward gallantry and dash and 'front.' He is chasing folly, and he knows it. He is trying to meet the world bravely, to put up a bluff, and he knows that, too. He knows it so well that he can laugh at himself and pity himself a little.

I'm unconscious while I'm acting. I live the role and am not myself.

I thought I would dress in baggy pants, big shoes, a cane and a derby hat [...] Everything a contradiction: the pants baggy, the coat tight, the hat small and the shoes large.

The soul of man has been given wings and at last he is beginning to fly!

I'm an old sinner. Nothing shocks me.