My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don't, streets that are friendly, streets that aren't, rooms where I might be happy, rooms where I shall never be, looking-glasses I look nice in, looking-glasses I don't, dresses that will be lucky, dresses that won't, and so on.

If all good, respectable people had one face, I'd spit in it.

If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.

The musty smell, the bugs, the lonliness, this room, which is part of the street outside-this is all I want from life.

For the first time she had dimly realized that only the hopeless are starkly sincere and that only the unhappy can either give or take sympathy--even some of the bitter and dangerous voluptuousness of misery.

Now at last I know why I was brought here and what I have to do.

What you take to be hyprocrisy is sometimes a certain caution, sometimes genuine, though ponderous, childish, sometimes a mixture of both.