Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains.

It's just because I love the past that I want this house to look back on its glamourous moment of youth and beauty, and I want its stairs to creak as if to the footsteps of women with hoop skirts and men in boots and spurs. But they've made it into a blondined, rouged-up old woman of sixty.

Nancy had a mouth like a remembered kiss.

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.

As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat's shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.

Prose talent depends on having something to say and an interesting, highly developed way of saying it.

Life plays the same lovely and agonizing joke on all of us.