What is most appalling in an F. Scott Fitzgerald book is that it is peopleless fiction: Fitzgerald writes about spectral, muscledsuits; dresses, hats, and sleeves which have some sort of vague, libidinous throb. These are plainly the product of sickness.

A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself.

Of all the animals on earth, none is so brutish as man when he seeks the delirium of coition.

No country has suffered so much from the ruins of war while being at peace as the American.

Who has enough credit in this world to pay for his mistakes?

I have no confidence in a man whose faults you cannot see.

One cat in a house is a sign of loneliness.