I'm a cynical idealist.

What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?

Tireless passion, fierce jealousy, longing to possess and crush-these alone were left of all his love for Rosalind; these remained to him as payment for the loss of his youth-bitter calomel under the thin sugar of love's exaltation.

Men don’t often know those times when a girl could be had for nothing.

But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair, of incessant passage up or down.

She smiled, a moving childish smile that was like all the lost youth in the world.

No grand idea was ever born in a conference, but a lot of foolish ideas have died there.