I'll drink your champagne. I'll drink every drop of it, I don't care if it kills me.

Everywhere we go and move on and change, something's lost--something's left behind. You can't ever quite repeat anything, and I've been so yours, here--

I won’t kiss you. It might get to be a habit and I can’t get rid of habits.

He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real.

All things come to him who mates.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther ... And one fine morning ---

i'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires