Postman Quotes

Luckily for you, you can close the book The Postman Always Rings Twice and break out of it, and James M. Cain can’t. I can’t think of any redeeming feature he has, but he’s extremely compelling.

When I did a sitcom and played a postman, I was brought to tears playing that postman, because I felt like one. I didn’t grow up even wanting to be a post man. Now, I understand the meaning of the term “postal.” I was bored to tears. And what was funny was that the producer actually looked like a bug.

My dad was very much a struggling actor and spent more of his life as a postman, as a member of a tarmac firm, as a van driver.

Most witches don’t believe in gods. They know that the gods exist, of course. They even deal with them occasionally. But they don’t believe in them. They know them too well. It would be like believing in the postman.

Sundays in France have a different atmosphere to other days, with fewer phone calls, no postman, no delivery men and no one banging on the door.

I had gone to New York with no plan at all. I did a lot of jobs – barman, teacher, security guard, postman and construction worker – and I was meeting many eccentric characters, and they were saying funny things, which I always wrote down.

I was a postman one Christmas and I developed a morbid fear of dogs.

And suddenly I know I have to go. But this time without being chased by the Brigadier, without experiencing the kindness of a postman from Yass, and without taking along a Cadet who will change the way I breath for the rest of my life.

The purpose of bread and circuses is, as Neil Postman said in his book Amusing Ourselves to Death, to distract, to divert emotional energy towards the absurd and the trivial and the spectacle while you are ruthlessly stripped of power.

As people who are women, who are Indigenous and live on Indigenous lands, we know, and this is something I understand the older I get, that they don’t visit the same way the postman may visit but they do visit. They visit in ways that our modern society often disregards and considers immaterial or unreal.

I was reading Neil Postman’s ‘Amusing Ourselves to Death’. It’s one of my favourites.

I am one of the new characters in the brand new series of ‘Postman Pat.’ It has been a joy to do.

Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post Office? What are we supposed to do, write to them? Why don’t they just put their pictures on the postage stamps so the postmen can look for them while they deliver the mail?

Perhaps there is no greater test of a man’s regularity and easiness of conscience than his readiness to face the postman. Blessed is he who is made happy by the sound of a rat-tat! The good are eager for it; but the naughty tremble at the sound thereof.

Hope is the letter that never arrives delivered by the postman of my fear.

Nothing will convince and convict those around us like the peaceful and positive way you and I respond to our twentieth century hurts and distress. The unbelieving world-your neighbors, the guy at the gas station, the postman, the lady at the cleaners, your boss at work-is observing the way we undergo our trials.

Luck lies in bed, and wishes the postman would bring him news of a legacy; labor turns out at six, and with busy pen or ringing hammer lays the foundation of a competence.

I’m as happy doing ‘Postman Pat’ as I am doing ‘Hamlet.’

The measure of success was writing a song, recording it and for it being in the hit parade in England. Success was about the postman walking up the garden whistling my song. I wasn’t trying to conquer the world.

Postman is a media analyst and his theory is that television doesn’t influence our culture, but that it is our culture and the presidency and anything that relies on television.

Nobody notices postmen, yet they have passions like other men.

I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers.

Foreign diplomats could have modeled their conduct on the way the Negro postmen, Pullman porters, and dining car waiters of Roxbury [Massachusetts] acted, striding around as if they were wearing top hats and cutaways.

I don’t celebrate because I’m only doing my job. When a postman delivers letters, does he celebrate?

I love movies like ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’ that are based on short novellas.

A letter is an unannounced visit, the postman the agent of rude surprises. One ought to reserve an hour a week for receiving letters and afterwards take a bath.

We want rights. The flour merchant, the house-builder, and the postman charge us no less on account of our sex; but when we endeavor to earn money to pay all these, then, indeed, we find the interest.

I have a lot of nervous energy. Work is my best way of channelling that into something productive unless I want to wind up assaulting the postman or gardener.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee, when the senses decay and the mind moves in a narrower and narrower circle, when the grasshopper is a burden and the postman brings no letters, and even the Royal Family is no longer quite what it was, an obituary column stands fast.

I’ve never sent an email to anybody. I believe in keeping the postman in work.