He lifted his arms to the crystaline, radiant sky. "I know myself," he cried, "but that is all.

I am too much a moralist at heart, and really want to preach at people in some acceptable form, rather than entertain them.

Baltimore is warm but pleasant... I belong here, where everything is civilized and gay and rotted and polite.

Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

You are the loveliest thing that I have ever known.

This is what I think now: that the natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness.

Joan Crawford is doubtless the best example of the flapper, the girl you see in smart night clubs, gowned to the apex of sophistication, toying iced glasses with a remote, faintly bitter expression, dancing deliciously, laughing a great deal, with wide, hurt eyes. Young things with a talent for living.