It was beautiful and simple, as truly great swindles are.
Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr's.
If you can't write a story that pleases yourself, you will never please the public. But in writing the story forget the public.
She plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of woman to proclaim ownership).
Women's weapon, water-drops.
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.
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.
If you live in an atmosphere of luxury, luxury is yours whether your money pays for it, or another's.
Turn up the lights. I don't want to go home in the dark.
To a woman nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she worships.
When a man begins to be hilarious in a sorrowful way you can bet a million that he is dyeing his hair.
There is a saying that no man has tasted the full flavour of life until he has known poverty, love and war. The justness of this reflection commends it to the lover of condensed philosophy. The three conditions embrace about all there is in life worth knowing. A surface thinker might deem that wealth should be added to the list. Not so. When a poor man finds a long-hidden quarter-dollar that has slipped through a rip into his vest lining, he sounds the pleasure of life with a deeper plummet than any millionaire can hope to cast.
There is one day that is ours. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.
There is no well defined boundary line between honesty and dishonesty. The frontiers of one blend with the outside limits of the other, and he who attempts to tread this dangerous ground may be sometimes in the one domain and sometimes in the other.
It couldn't have happened anywhere but in little old New York.
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.
By nature and doctrines I am addicted to the habit of discovering choice places wherein to feed.
It's said that love makes the world go around. Let me tell you, the announcement lacks verification. It's the wind from the dinner horn that does it.
A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
There is a saying that no man has tasted the full flavor of life until he has known poverty, love, and war.
She had become so thoroughly annealed into his life that she was like the air he breathed--necessary but scarcely noticed.
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.
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.
Of habit, the power that keeps the earth from flying to pieces; though there is some silly theory of gravitation.
A straw vote only shows which way the hot air blows.
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