Through this atmosphere of torrid splendor moved wan beings as richly upholstered as the furniture, beings without definite pursuits or permanent relations, who drifted on a languid tide of curiosity... Somewhere behind them, in the background of their lives there was doubtless a real past, yet they had no more real existence than the poet's shades in limbo.

The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!

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

The value of books is proportionate to what may be called their plasticity -- their quality of being all things to all men, of being diversely moulded by the impact of fresh forms of thought.

It was harder to drown at sunrise than in darkness.

Beauty (was)a gift which, in the eyes of New York, justified every success, and excused a certain number of failings.

I have never known a novel that was good enough to be good in spite of its being adapted to the author's political views.