i was perhaps an egotist in youth, but i soon found it made me morbid to think too much about myself

But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

In a few days I'll have lived one score and three days in this vale of tears. On I plod-always bored, often drunk, doing no penance for my faults-rather do I become more tolerant of myself from day to day, hardening my crystal heart with blasphemous humor and shunning only toothpicks, pathos, and poverty as being the three unforgivable things in life.

It appears that every man's insomnia is as different from his neighbours as are their daytime hopes and aspirations.

The idea that to make a man work you've got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. We've done that for so long that we've forgotten there's any other way.

She was a mischief, and that was a satisfaction; no longer was she a huntress of corralled game

I can’t tell you just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.