“Write what you like; there is no other rule.”

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.

Be always decent and right in your home town; and when you’re on the road, never take more than four glasses of beer a day or play higher than a twenty-five-cent limit.