Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.

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.

She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.

[B]ut he had lived in a world in which, as he said, no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally.

In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.

A New York divorce is in itself a diploma of virtue.

Life is always either; a tight -rope or a feather-bed . — Give me the tightrope.