It takes a genius to whine appealingly.

All great art is a form of complaint

Man invented language to satisfy his deep need to complain.

He was marked out by his relentless ability to find fault with others' mediocrity — suggesting that a certain type of intelligence may be at heart nothing more or less than a superior capacity for dissatisfaction.

Children's lies are signs of great talent.

Complaints are a beautiful thing. They represent free feedback and expose unmet needs in your business. They represent the journey’s road noise.

He had a gift for saying unpleasant things in the most charming manner.

The genius is childlike. Like children he looks into the world as into a new creation and finds there a perennial source of wonder and delight.

Genius is only childhood recovered at will, childhood now gifted to express itself with the faculties of manhood and with the analytic mind that allows him to give order to the heap of unwittingly hoarded material.

He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.

It appeared that the one area in which Sir Bob excelled was anxiety. He was marked out by his relentless ability to find fault with others’ mediocrity—suggesting that a certain kind of intelligence may at heart be nothing more or less than a superior capacity for dissatisfaction.

He seemed to feel something like indulgent contempt for the rest of the world. It was all right, I suppose. Nobody had better reason. The man was a genius.

All creation complains and moans, my dear lord Commissarius. Complaint is its distinctive sound.

He had a conspicuous individual talent, but it was interpretive, not directly creative. He could never have emulated Chaplin, Keaton or Jacques Tati and set up a whole project by himself, controlling its every detail even if the task took years. But there is no point carping. He had such a protean capacity that it would have been a miracle if he had been in full command of it.