It was about then [1920] that I wrote a line which certain people will not let me forget: "She was a faded but still lovely woman of twenty-seven."

"What are you going to do?" "Can't say - run for president, write -" "Greenwich Village?" "Good heavens, no - I said write - not drink."

I'm not much like myself any more.

In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

Amory: I love you. Rosalind: I love you- now.

The notion of sitting down and conjuring up, not only words in which to clothe thoughts but thoughts worthy of being clothed--the whole thing was absurdly beyond his desires.

"I was counting the waves", replied Amory gravely, "I'm going in for statistics".