Living rather ascetically, travelling third-class when he was alone, with the cheapest wine, and good care of his clothes, and penalizing himself for any extravagances, he maintained a qualified financial independence.
Solo son cenizas flotando.
It’s rotten that every bit of real love in the world is ninety-nine percent passion and one little soupcon of jealousy.
His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through.
Pero soy lento en el pensar, estoy lleno de normas interiores que actuan como frenos sobre mis deseos.
He merely warned his son that he would ’stunt his growth.
Remarkable that a person can comprehend so little and yet live in such a complex civilization.
Atalanta in Calydon.
Teutonic migration.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And one fine morning – So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
He doesn’t want any trouble with ANYbody.
He doesn’t want any trouble with ANYbody.’ ‘Who doesn’t?’ I inquired. ‘Gatsby. Somebody told me – –.
A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next remark it faded away.
And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.
You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfsheim.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch, but I assured him he was wrong.
Like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace.
Succeeding Dexter’s first exhilaration came restlessness and dissatisfaction. The helpless ecstasy of losing himself in her was opiate rather than tonic. It was fortunate for his work during the winter that those moments of ecstasy came infrequently.
These dead, he knew them all, their weather-beaten faces with blue flashing eyes, the spare violent bodies, the souls made of new earth in the forest-heavy darkness of the seventeenth century.
He would be a different person henceforward, and in his raw state he had bizarre feelings of what his new self would be.