I'm not much like myself any more.

I like France, where everybody thinks he's Napoleon--down here everybody thinks he's Christ.

You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.

It was a grey day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn.

The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.

His dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him.

The first lights of the evening were springing into pale existence. The Ferris wheel, pricked out now in lights, revolved leisurely through the dusk; a few empty cars of the roller coaster rattled overhead.