Greenwich Village… the village of low rents and high arts.

And most wonderful of all are words, and how they make friends one with another, being oft associated, until not even obituary notices them do part.

Oh, I know what to do when I see victuals coming toward me in little old Bagdad-on-the-Subway. I strike the asphalt three times with my forehead and get ready to spiel yarns for my supper.

If men knew how women pass the time when they are alone, they’d never marry.

To a woman nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she worships.

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,...

She hadbecome so thoroughly annealed into his life that she was like theair he breathed–necessary but scarcely noticed.

All of us have to be prevaricators, hypocrites, and liars every day of our lives; otherwise the social structure would fall into pieces the first day. We must act in one another’s presence just as...

It couldn’t have happened anywhere but in little old New York.

Pull up the shades so I can see New York. I don’t want to go home in the dark.

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

No friendship is an accident.

Well, little old Noisyville-on-the Subway is good enough for me.

I wanted to paint a picture some day that people would stand before and forget that it was made of paint. I wanted it to creep into them like a bar of music and mushroom...