I know that an author must be brave enough to chop away clinging tentacles of good taste for the sake of a great work. But this is no great work, you see.

I hate almost all rich people, but I think I’d be darling at it.

Ah, clear they see and true they say That one shall weep, and one shall stray

Art is a form of catharsis.

There was nothing separate about her days. Like drops on the window-pane, they ran together and trickled away.

Perhaps it suddenly brought to us the sense of change. Or irresponsibility. But don't forget that, though the people in the twenties seemed like flops, they weren't. Fitzgerald, the rest of them, reckless as they were, drinkers as they were, they worked damn hard and all the time.

On being told of the death of former President Calvin Coolidge: How could they tell?