A love affair is like a short story--it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning was easy, the middle might drag, invaded by commonplace, but the end, instead of being decisive and well knit with that element of revelatory surprise as a well-written story should be, it usually dissipated in a succession of messy and humiliating anticlimaxes.

Isn't Hollywood a dump-in the human sense of the word. A hideous town, pointed up by the insulting gardens of its rich, full of the human spirit at a new low of debasement.

Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.

I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires.

No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me.

Rosemary felt that this swim would become the typical one of her life, the one that would always pop up in her memory at the mention of swimming.

I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.