Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.

It was too late - everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.

But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot.

In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.

Personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures.

If you have anything to say, anything you feel nobody has ever said before, you have got to feel it so desperately that you will find some way to say it that nobody has ever found before, so that the thing you have to say and the way of saying it blend as one matter--as indissolubly as if they were conceived together.

...I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes.