An unread book is just a block of paper.

The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain.

The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American.

The greatest profound pain is cased by, and is the result of our own illusions, fantasies and dreams.

You are mine-you know you're mine!" he cried wildly...the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened...the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.

She confused him and hindered the flow of his ideas. Self-expression had never seemed at once so desirable and so impossible.

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