The hangover became a part of the day as well allowed-for as the Spanish siesta.

He's a bootlegger....One time he killed a man who found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil.

It was too late - everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.

I have never wished there was a God to call on- I have often wished there was a God to thank.

There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth-yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams...... And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed... He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. I know myself," he cried, "but that is all.

Books are like brothers. I am an only child. Gatsby [is] my imaginary eldest brother.

Great art is the contempt of a great man for small art.