You’re just the romantic age,” she continued- “fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly wise; thirty is apt to be pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is- oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the mellow age. I love fifty.” - Hildegarde

Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.

So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.

I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.

Once one is caught up into the material world not one person in ten thousand finds the time to form literary taste, to examine the validity of philosophic concepts for himself, or to form what, for lack of a better phrase, I might call the wise and tragic sense of life.

The sign of intelligence is the ability to carry opposed thoughts at the same time.

No decent career was ever founded on a public.