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

She was a faded but still lovely woman of twenty-seven.

Every act of life, from the morning toothbrush to the friend at dinner, became an effort. I hated the night when I couldn't sleep and I hated the day because it went toward night.

The hangover became a part of the day as well allowed-for as the Spanish siesta.

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

Human sympathy has its limits.

There's no beauty without poignancy and there's no poignancy without the feeling that it's going, men, names, books, houses--bound for dust--mortal--