At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.

The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaiety, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.

Strange children should smile at each other and say, "Let's play.

I used to build dreams about you.

interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at the end

Want any of this stuff? Jordan?... Nick?" I didn't answer. Nick?" he asked again. What?" Want any?" No... I just remembered that today's my birthday." I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.

He's sensitive and I don't want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn't care about him.