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.
O. HENRYShe had become so thoroughly annealed into his life that she was like the air he breathed–necessary but scarcely noticed.
More O. Henry Quotes
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Fortune is a prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk in the shadows at the roadside.
O. HENRY -
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.
O. HENRY -
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.
O. HENRY -
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.
O. HENRY -
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.
O. HENRY -
Those whom we first love we seldom marry.
O. HENRY -
Men to whom life had appeared as a reversible coat – seamy on both sides.
O. HENRY -
All great men have declared that they owe their sucess to the aid and encouragement of some brilliant woman.
O. HENRY -
The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate.
O. HENRY -
Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr’s.
O. HENRY -
A good story is like a bitter pill, with the sugar coating inside of it.
O. HENRY -
It was beautiful and simple, as truly great swindles are.
O. HENRY -
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl.
O. HENRY -
We may achieve climate, but weather is thrust upon us.
O. HENRY -
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.
O. HENRY