She had an air of seeming to wait, as if for a man to get through with something more important than herself, a battle or an operation, during which he must not be hurried or interfered with. When the man had finished she would be waiting, without fret or impatience, somewhere on a highstool, turning the pages of a newspaper.

Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke.

Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains.

She confused him and hindered the flow of his ideas. Self-expression had never seemed at once so desirable and so impossible.

I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone's away. There's something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.

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.

It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.