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.

The Americans have always been food, sex, and spirit revivalists.

Perhaps Samuel Johnson was a great man; he was certainly a drumbling one.

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

Every decision you make is a mistake.

The earnings of a poet could be reckoned by a metaphysician rather than a bookkeeper.

There is a strange and mighty race of people called the Americans who are rapidly becoming the coldest in the world because of this cruel, man-eating idol, lucre.