He loved the people just as much as he feared and detested persons.
The cocktail filled him with a whirling exhilaration behind which he was aware of devastating desires—to rush places in fast motors, to kiss girls, to sing, to be witty. ... He perceived that he had gifts of profligacy which had been neglected. —chapter 8
Don't be a writer. Writing is an escape from something. You be a scientist.
Why is it that traveling Americans are always so dreadful?
Our American professors like their literature clear and cold and pure and very dead.
What are these unheard of sins you condemn so much - and like so well?