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.

Humans were denied the speech of animals. The only common ground of communication upon which dogs and men can get together is in fiction.

There is one day that is ours. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.

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.

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.

The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate.