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.

In the morning you were never violently sorry-- you made no resolutions, but if you had overdone it and your heart was slightly out of order, you went on the wagon for a few days without saying anything about it, and waited until an accumulation of nervous boredom projected you into another party.

Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. They don't. They just want the fun of eating it all over again.

I am too much a moralist at heart, and really want to preach at people in some acceptable form, rather than entertain them.

Very few of the people who accentuate the futility of life remark the futility of themselves. Perhaps they think that in proclaiming the evil of living they somehow salvage their own worth from the ruin - but they don't, even you and I.

I wish I could write. I get these ideas but I never seem to be able to put them in words.

A writer's temperament is continually making him do things he can never repair.