For the moment I can only cry out that I have lost my splendid mirage. Come back, come back, O glittering and white!
I am too much a moralist at heart, and really want to preach at people in some acceptable form, rather than entertain them.
He was handsome then if never before, bound for one of those immortal moments which come so radiantly that their remembered light is enough to see by for years.
Amory thought how it was only the past that seemed strange and unbelievable.
The helpless ecstasy of loosing himself in her charm was a powerful opiate rather than a tonic.
I hope something happens. I’m restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.
There was never a good biography of a good novelist. There couldn’t be. He is too many people if he’s any good.
So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.
If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.
Who would not be pleased at carrying lamps helpfully through the darkness?
Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.
I’ve got an adjective that just fits you.
For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy’s wing.
She was a dark, unenduring little flower – yet he thought he detected in her some quality of spiritual reticence, of strength drawn from her passive acceptance of all things. In this he was mistaken.
Men she knew’? – she had conceded vaguely to herself that all men who had ever been in love with her were her friends.
To create souls in men, to create fine happiness and fine despair she must remain deeply proud – proud to be inviolate, proud also to be melting, to be passionate and possessed.
Everywhere we go and move on and change, something’s lost – something’s left behind. You can’t ever quite repeat anything, and I’ve been so yours, here –.
This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.
Men don’t often know those times when a girl could be had for nothing.
The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.