William John Locke (20 March 1863 – 15 May 1930) was a British novelist, dramatist and playwright, best known for his short stories
It all depends whether hope is in front or behind you.
Any human love a man gets he can make fill his life. It's like the grain of mustard-seed.
Life is droll. It has no common sense. It is the game of a mountebank.
I believe half of the unhappiness in life comes from people being afraid to go straight at things.
Every man's first declaration of love is bathos--the zenith of his passion connoting perhaps the nadir of his intelligence.
If you love a Dream Woman. . . let her stay the divine Woman of the Dream. To awaken and clasp flesh and blood, no matter how delicately tender, and find that love has sped at the dawn is a misery too deep for tears.
Children are the root of all evil. . . . Happy the man who has his quiver empty.
The only remedy against the malady of life is life itself. The bane is its own antidote.
As I enter on the path of happiness, I scatter the dregs and shreds and clippings of the past behind me. I divest myself of all the crapulous years.
Women are cats. . . and love to scratch even those they're fond of. Sometimes the more they love them the harder they scratch.
What is a logical mind?. . . It is the antiseptic which destroys the bacilli of unreason whereby true happiness is vivified.
The measure of my success is the measure of my happiness.
Women are women and can't help themselves.
It is not cheerful for a girl to discover within twenty-four hours of her wedding that her husband is a hopeless drunkard, and to see him die of delirium tremens within six weeks. An experience so vivid, like lightning must blast something in a woman's conception of life. Because one man's kisses reeked of whisky the kisses of all male humanity were anathema.
Sex is the. . . tremulous and bewildering and nerve-racking and delicious and myriad-adjectived soul-condition. . . generally known as love. Ninety-nine point nine repeater percent of the world's literature has been devoted to its analysis. It's therefore of some importance.
Life is too transcendentally humorous for a man not to take it seriously. Compared with it, Death is but a shallow jest.
Art is long, and the talk about it is even longer.
I hold in my hands the very soul of a man. What more dare a woman ask of the high gods?
The only cure for loss of illusions is fresh illusions, more illusions, and always illusions.
In France the men all live in cafes, the children are all put out to nurse, and the women, saving the respect of mademoiselle -- well, the less said about them the better.