Hobbies take place in the cellar and smell of airplane glue.

A room containing Philip Roth, I have noticed, begins hilariously to whirl and pulse with a mix of rebelliousness and constriction that I take to be Oedipal.

The only insult I've ever received in my adult life was when someone asked me, "Do you have a hobby?" A HOBBY?! DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING DABBLER?!

You can't take 'Seinfeld' and glue on interactivity.

Isn’t it curious how in so many of our pastimes and hobbies we play at supplying one or another of our fundamentally creauturely needs—for food, shelter, even clothing?

A hobby is only fun if you do not have time to do it