They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.

Look at that,' she whispered, and then after a moment: 'I'd like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.

I am not a great man, but sometimes I think the impersonal and objective equality of my talent and the sacrifices of it, in pieces, to preserve its essential value has some sort of epic grandeur.

Never befuddle a solitary thrashing with a last annihilation.

Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.

A squalid phantasmagoria of breath

Often I think writing is a sheer paring away of oneself leaving always something thinner, barer, more meagre.