Mr. Fitzgerald-I believe that is how he spells his name-seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world.

We get something to do and as soon as we've got it, it gets us.

Women, despite the fact that nine out of ten of them go through life with a death-bed air either of snatching-the-last-moment or with martyr-resignation, do not die tomorrow--or the next day. They have to live on to any one of many bitter ends.

The night you gave me my birthday party... you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn't I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.

Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.

A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.