...their eyes are full of kindness as each feels the full effect of novelty after a short separation. They are drawing a relaxation from each other's presence, a new serenity.

You are mysterious, I love you. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that’s the rarest known combination.

Young people do not perceive at once that the giver of wounds is the enemy and the quoted tattle merely the arrow.

Books are like brothers. I am an only child. Gatsby [is] my imaginary eldest brother.

He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real.

One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual.

No such thing as a man willing to be honest - that would be like a blind man willing to see.