He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this, combined with a lazy indifference toward his work, exasperated every master in school. He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah; took to sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a dread of being alone he attached a few friends, but since they were not among the elite of the school, he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before which he might do that posing absolutely essential to him. He was unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy.

I don't like girls in the daytime,' he said shortly, and then thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: 'But I like you.' He cleared his throat. 'I like you first and second and third.

The victor belongs to the spoils.

For the moment I can only cry out that I have lost my splendid mirage. Come back, come back, O glittering and white!

His was a great sin who first invented consciousness. Let us lose it for a few hours.

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.

I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife.