All she wanted was to be a little girl, to be efficiently taken care of by some yielding yet superior power, stupider and steadier than herself. It seemed that the only lover she had ever wanted was a lover in a dream

She was incurably dishonest.

I learned a little of beauty - enough to know that it had nothing to do with truth.

Premature success gives one an almost mystical conception of destiny as opposed to will power-at its worst the Napoleonic delusion.

What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?

We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It's a sad season of life without growth...It has no day.

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