without you, dearest dearest I couldn't see or hear or feel or think - or live - I love you so and I'm never in all our lives going to let us be apart another night.

She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.

It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and, also, scraps of letters which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (I believe that is how he spells his name) seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

Spinach and champagne. Going back to the kitchens at the old Waldorf. Dancing on the kitchen tables, wearing the chef's headgear. Finally, a crash and being escorted out by the house detectives.

We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.

Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.

It's terrible to allow conventional habits to gain a hold on a whole household; to eat, sleep and live by clock ticks.