But he does look stupid.' Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid.

[T]he army of wrongness rampant in the world might as well march over me.

I was eleven, then I was sixteen. Though no honors came my way, those were the lovely years.

She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox.

All literature is gossip.

Dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase.

You know the days when you get the mean reds? Paul Varjak: The mean reds. You mean like the blues? Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat, and maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re just sad, that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid, and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?