Your life on earth will be, as always, the interval between two significant glances in a mundane mirror.

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

How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his.

A sense of responsibility would spoil her. She's too pretty.

one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty−one that everything afterward savors of anti−climax.

Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays.

We must leave this terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine.