So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

He looked at her the way all women want to be looked at by a man.

i'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires

So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.

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.

The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.