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She plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of woman to proclaim ownership).
O. Henry
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O. Henry
Age: 47 †
Born: 1862
Born: September 11
Died: 1910
Died: June 5
Journalist
Writer
Greensboro
North Carolina
William Sydney Porter
Olivier Henry
Oliver Henry
Strand
Plucked
Proclaim
Strands
Ownership
Invisible
Universal
Lapel
Woman
Lint
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A good story is like a bitter pill, with the sugar coating inside of it.
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There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl.
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Most wonderful of all are words, and how they make friends one with another.
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It'll be a great place if they ever finish it.
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There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.
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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.
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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.
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O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
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No friendship is an accident.
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A straw vote only shows which way the hot air blows.
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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.
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If you can't write a story that pleases yourself, you will never please the public. But in writing the story forget the public.
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Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
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Those whom we first love we seldom marry
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Greenwich Village... the village of low rents and high arts.
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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.
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A burglar who respects his art always takes his time before taking anything else.
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This fair but pitiless city of Manhattan was without a soul ... its inhabitants were manikins moved by wires and springs.
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The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey.
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Love and business and family and religion and art and patriotism are nothing but shadows of words when a man's starving!
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