What a wonderful song, she thought-everything was wonderful tonight, most of all this romantic scene in the den with their hands clinging and the inevitable looming charmingly close. The future vista of her life seemed an unending succession of scenes like this: under moonlight and pale starlight, and in the backs of warm limousines and in low cosy roadsters stopped under sheltering trees-only the boy might change, and this one was so nice.

Kiss me now, love me now.

he could transform the barest incident into a thing of curve and contour.

I was too absorbed to be responsive

Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.

It is not merely enough to have the ability to be persistant, you must also have the ability to start over.

Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring as the happiest time of his life. His ideas were in tune with life as he found it; he wanted no more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships through the April afternoons.