A classic is classic not because it conforms to certain structural rules, or fits certain definitions (of which its author had quite probably never heard). It is classic because of a certain eternal and irrepressible freshness.

I can't love you unless I give you up.

They belonged to that vast group of human automata who go through life without neglecting to perform a single one of the gestures executed by the surrounding puppets.

Is there nowhere in an American house where one may be by one's self?

To your generation, I must represent the literary equivalent of tufted furniture and gas chandeliers.

In the rotation of crops there was a recognized season for wild oats; but they were not sown more than once.

He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shriveling up like ghosts at sunrise.