...for a moment people set down their glasses in county clubs and speak-easies and thought of their old best dreams.

A writer's temperament is continually making him do things he can never repair.

Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

My generation of radicals and breakers-down never found anything to take the place of the old virtues of work and courage and the old graces of courtesy and politeness.

A stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.

The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.

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.