“It gives men courage and ambition and the nerve for anything. It has the colour of gold, is clear as a glass and shines after dark as if the sunshine were still in it.”

I’ve got some of my best yarns from park benches, lamp posts and newspaper stands.

This fair but pitiless city of Manhattan was without a soul its inhabitants were manikins moved by wires and springs.

He studied cities as women study their reflections.

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

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.

Each of us, when our day’s work is done, must seek our ideal, whether it be love or pinochle or lobster à la Newburg, or the sweet silence of the musty bookshelves.

History is bright and fiction dull with homely men who have charmed women.

Men to whom life had appeared as a reversible coat – seamy on both sides.

When a man begins to be hilarious in a sorrowful way you can bet a million that he is dyeing his hair.

He seemed to be made of sunshine and blood-red tissue and clear weather.

By nature and doctrines I am addicted to the habit of discovering choice places wherein to feed.

All great men have declared that they owe their sucess to the aid and encouragement of some brilliant woman.

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.

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

A good story is like a bitter pill, with the sugar coating inside of it.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl.

If I see everything in gray, and in gray all the colors which I experience and which I would like to reproduce, then why should I use any other color?

Stothard learned the art of combining colors by closely studying butterflies wings; he would often say that no one knew what he owed to these tiny insects. A burnt stick and a barn door served Wilkie in lieu of pencil and canvas.

I’m what I seem; not any dyer gave, But nature dyed this colour that I have.

I hate the color red almost as much as i hate blond hair,”he said with an amused tone. -Dank

Making a movie is, for me, like painting. I just enjoy the care that goes into every brushstroke and the choice of every color. I enjoy the intensity of it.

I’ve tried doing so, for it was never my intention to paint only with gray. But in the course of my work I have eliminated one color after another, and what has remained is gray, gray, gray!

And when life seems grey, wrap yourself in the mercy of autumn.

Shadow is a colour as light is, but less brilliant; light and shadow are only the relation of two tones.