It's difficult to explain, but I just somehow feel that I never really *have* lived; that I never really will live--exist or whatever--in the sense that other people do. It drives me crazy. I was terribly aware of it all those nights waiting for you in the Ritz bar looking around at what seemed to be real grown-up lives. I just find everybody else's life surrounded by plate glass. I mean I'd like to break through it just once and actually touch one.

What’s the use of remembering anything? If it was unpleasant it was unpleasant and if it was pleasant it’s over.

... I was merely a disinterested spectator at the Banquet of Life.

I always expect people to behave much better than I do. When they actually behave worse, I am frankly incredulous.

Oh, Teddy, darling, thank you, thank you, for restoring my cynicism. I was too young to lose it.

A rowdy bunch on the whole, they were most of them so violently individualistic as to be practically interchangeable.

I’ve never wanted to meet anyone I’ve been introduced to. I want to meet all the other people.