She wanted to exist only as a conscious flower, prolonging and preserving herself

She was a mischief, and that was a satisfaction; no longer was she a huntress of corralled game

one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty−one that everything afterward savors of anti−climax.

The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness.

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

Progress was a labyrinth ... people plunging blindly in and then rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it ... the invisible king-the élan vital-the principle of evolution ... writing a book, starting a war, founding a school.

I'm a cynical idealist.