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

The truth was that for some months he had been going through that partitioning of the things of youth wherein it is decided whether or not to die for what one no longer believes.

When she saw him face to face their eyes met and brushed like birds’ wings. After that everything was all right, everything was wonderful, she knew that he was beginning to fall in love with her.

When Eleanor's arm touched his he felt his hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he should lose the shadow brush with which his imagination was painting wonders of her. He watched her from the corners of his eyes as ever he did when he walked with her-- she was a feast and a folly and he wished it had been his destiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life through her green eyes.

You've got an awfully kissable mouth.

So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight - watching over nothing.

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