Ah," she cried, "you look so cool." Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. You always look so cool," she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw.

They talked aimlessly back and forth, each speaking for the other.

I guess I'm the Black Death,' he said slowly. 'I don't seem to bring people happiness any more.

I had traded the fight against love for the fight against loneliness, the fight against life for the fight against death.

She was a dark, unenduring little flower - yet he thought he detected in her some quality of spiritual reticence, of strength drawn from her passive acceptance of all things. In this he was mistaken.

Whenever you feel like criticizing any one... just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.

Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you -- like music to the musician or Marxism to the Communist -- or else it is nothing, an empty, formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.