For years afterwards when Amory thought of Eleanor he seemed still to hear the wind sobbing around him and sending little chills into the places beside his heart. The night when they rode up the slope and watched the cold moon float through the clouds, he lost a further part of him that nothing could restore; and when he lost it he lost also the power of regretting it.

It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.

Never befuddle a solitary thrashing with a last annihilation.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering

She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.

Nothing any good isn't hard.

I like France, where everybody thinks he's Napoleon--down here everybody thinks he's Christ.