American Writer of Short Stories
O. Henry, pen name for William Sydney Porter
American Writer of Short Stories
It couldn't have happened anywhere but in little old New York.
She is pale but affectionate, clinging to his arm ? always clinging to his arm. Any one can see that she is a peach and of the cling variety.
What is the world at its best but a little round field of the moving pictures with two walking together in it?
It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
She plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of woman to proclaim ownership).
When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
It is said that love makes the world go 'round - the announcement lacks verification. It's wind from the dinner horn that does it.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds.
Whenever he saw a dollar in another man's hands he took it as a personal grudge, if he couldn't take it any other way.
It'll be a great place if they ever finish it.
t did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
Whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines.
Kerner's father was worth a couple of millions. He was willing to stand for art, but he drew the line at the factory girl. So Kerner disinherited his father and walked out to a cheap studio and lived on sausages for breakfast and on Farroni for dinner.
Take it from me ? he's got the goods.
Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
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.
Take of London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts, gas leaks 20 parts, dewdrops gathered in a brickyard at sunrise 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix. The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle.
Write what you like; there is no other rule.
Not very long ago someone invented the assertion that there were only "Four Hundred" people in New York City who were really worth noticing. But a wiser man has arisen ? the census taker ? and his larger estimate of human interest has been preferred in marking out the field of these little stories of the "Four Million."
The magi, as you know, were wise men ? wonderfully wise men ? who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
You sold a story last week, said Pettit, about a gun fight in an Arizona mining town in which the hero drew his Colt's .45 and shot seven bandits as fast as they came in the door. Now, if a six-shooter could?Oh, well, said I, that's different. Arizona is a long way from New York. I could have a man stabbed with a lariat or chased by a pair of chaparreras if I wanted to, and it wouldn't be noticed until the usual error-sharp from around McAdams Junction isolates the erratum and writes in to the papers about it.
Of habit, the power that keeps the earth from flying to pieces; though there is some silly theory of gravitation.
There are a few editor men with whom I am privileged to come in contact. It has not been long since it was their habit to come in contact with me. There is a difference.
Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
Oh, come off your perch! said the other man, who wore glasses. Your premises won't come out in the wash. You wind-jammers who apply bandy-legged theories to concrete categorical syllogisms send logical conclusions skallybootin' into the infinitesimal ragbag. You can't pull my leg with an old sophism with whiskers on it.