The only thing that could spoil a day was people. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it.

Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?

I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless.

There is nothing you can do except try to write it the way that it was. So you must write each day better than you possibly can and use the sorrow that you have now to make you know how the early sorrow came. And you must always remember the things you believed because if you know them they will be there in the writing and you won’t betray them. The writing is the only progress you make.

I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.

Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would never know, now.