It brings up happy old days when I was only a farmer and not an agriculturist.
It couldn't have happened anywhere but in little old New York.
East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians. Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a State.
It'll be a great place if they ever finish it.
He studied cities as women study their reflections.
There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.
In the Big City a man will disappear with the suddenness and completeness of the flame of a candle that is blown out.
When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard,
She plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of woman to proclaim ownership).
Write what you like; there is no other rule.
Yes, I get dry spells. Sometimes I can't turn out a thing for three months. When one of those spells comes on I quit trying to work and go out and see something of life. You can't write a story that's got any life in it by sitting at a writing table and thinking. You've got to get out into the streets, into the crowds, talk with people, and feel the rush and throb of real life-that's the stimulant for a story writer.
I wanted to paint a picture some day that people would stand before and forget that it was made of paint. I wanted it to creep into them like a bar of music and mushroom there like a soft bullet.
There are stories in everything. I've got some of my best yarns from park benches, lampposts, and newspaper stands.
It ain't the roads we take; it's what's inside of us that makes us turn out the way we do.
A good story is like a bitter pill, with the sugar coating inside of it.
Turn up the lights. I don't want to go home in the dark.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
To a woman nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she worships.
No friendship is an accident.
Inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.
Fortune is a prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk in the shadows at the roadside.
Each of us, when our day's work is done, must seek our ideal, whether it be love or pinochle or lobster Ã la Newburg, or the sweet silence of the musty bookshelves.
There is one day that is ours. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.
We can't buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer.
The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate.
A holiday in a new dress—can earth offer anything more enchanting?
Not very long ago some one invented the assertion that there were only "Four Hundred" people in New York City who were really worth noticing. But a wiser man has arisen - the census taker - and his larger estimate of human interest has been preferred in marking out the field of these little stories of the "Four Million.
Whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines.
The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey.
There are a few editor men with whom I am privileged to come in contact. It has not been long since it was their habit to come in contact with me. There is a difference.
In time truth and science and nature will adapt themselves to art. Things will happen logically, and the villain be discomfited instead of being elected to the board of directors. But in the meantime fiction must not only be divorced from fact, but must pay alimony and be awarded custody of the press despatches.
Most wonderful of all are words, and how they make friends one with another.
Take of London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts, gas leaks 20 parts, dewdrops gathered in a brickyard at sunrise 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix. The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle.
Bolivar cannot carry double
Broadway - the great sluice that washes out the dust of the gold-mines of Gotham.
But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat-the ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions-ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable-the mutual help and inspiration; and-overlook my artlessness-stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.
I'll give you the whole secret to short story writing. Here it is. Rule 1: Write stories that please yourself. There is no Rule 2.
Greenwich Village... the village of low rents and high arts.
[A]ll of life, as we know it, moves in little, unavailing circles. More justly than to anything else, it can be likened to the game of baseball. Crack! we hit the ball, and away we go. If we earn a run (in life we call it success) we get back to the home plate and sit upon a bench. If we are thrown out, we walk back to the home plate - and sit upon a bench.
A burglar who respects his art always takes his time before taking anything else.