Great books write themselves, only bad books have to be written.

Men she knew'? - she had conceded vaguely to herself that all men who had ever been in love with her were her friends.

Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.

She was incomprehensible, for, in her, soul and spirit were one - the beauty of her body was the essence of her soul. She was that unity sought for by philosophers through many centuries. In this outdoor waiting room of winds and stars she had been sitting for a hundred years, at peace in the contemplation of herself.

At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others -- poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner -- young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.

The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.

Baseball is a game played by idiots for morons.