It couldn't have happened anywhere but in little old New York.

You can't appreciate home till you've left it, money till it's spent, your wife till she's joined a woman's club, nor Old Glory till you see it hanging on a broomstick on the shanty of a consul in a foreign town.

There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old age; youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares; old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.

Inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.

I'll give you the sole secret of short-story writing, and here it is: Rule 1. Write stories that please yourself. There is no rule 2. The technical points you can get from Bliss Perry. If you can't write a story that pleases yourself, you will never please the public. But in writing the story forget the public.

Love and business and family and religion and art and patriotism are nothing but shadows of words when a man's starving!

She plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of woman to proclaim ownership).