The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered 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.

The cleverly expressed opposite of any generally accepted idea is worth a fortune to somebody.

It was strange to have no self-to be like a little boy left alone in a big house, who knew that now he could do anything he wanted to do, but found that there was nothing that he wanted to do.

He had angered Providence by resisting too many temptations. There was nothing left but heaven, where he would meet only those who, like him, had wasted earth.

To most women art is a form of scandal.

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.