he wanted people to like his mind again-after awhile it might be such a nice place in which to live.

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."

I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.

He must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.

I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie.

I've got an adjective that just fits you.

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.