Human sympathy has its limits.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther ... And one fine morning ---

Life cracked like ice!

Beauty and love pass, I know... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses-

I have never wished there was a God to call on- I have often wished there was a God to thank.

He felt married to her, that was all.

I just couldn't make the grade as a hack-that, like everything else, requires a certain practiced excellence.