“Whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines.”

In the Big City a man will disappear with the suddenness and completeness of the flame of a candle that is blown out.

It’ll be a great place if they ever finish it.

A burglar who respects his art always takes his time before taking anything else.

Of habit, the power that keeps the earth from flying to pieces; though there is some silly theory of gravitation.

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.

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.

Fortune is a prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk in the shadows at the roadside.

My advice to you, if you should ever be in a hold up, is to line up with the cowards and save your bravery for an occasion when it may be of some benefit to you.

Hospitality in the prairie country is not limited. Even if your enemy passes your way, you must feed him before you shoot him.

If you can’t write a story that pleases yourself, you will never please the public. But in writing the story forget the public.

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.

Except in streetcars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.

When I see a shipwreck, I like to know what caused the disaster. I learned nothing but the glow that wrapped her face when the soup came. That’s the story.

Turn up the lights. I don’t want to go home in the dark.

We can’t buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer.

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

When I’m an old man, I don’t want to count the years, we forgot to share.

The relationship that counts most in my life is the one I have with myself. I have a great, great, great relationship with myself, and it gets better and better as I get older. The other day, I was talking to Barry in the car and I said, ‘I’m so glad I’m me!’

I slide my arm from under the sleeper’s head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

Each say following another, either hastening or putting off our death–what pleasure does it bring? I count that man worthless whois cheered by empty hopes. No, a noble man must either live or die well.

Votes should be weighed not counted.

Every time I’ve failed, people had me out for the count, but I always come back.

I’ve said that playing the blues is like having to be black twice. Stevie Ray Vaughan missed on both counts, but I never noticed.

Unlike any other nation, here the people rule, and their will is the supreme law. It is sometimes sneeringly said by those who do not like free government, that here we count heads. True, heads are counted, but brains also.