Men she knew’? – she had conceded vaguely to herself that all men who had ever been in love with her were her friends.
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.
She admired him; she was used to clutching her hands together in his wake and heaving audible sighs.
The first lights of the evening were springing into pale existence. The Ferris wheel, pricked out now in lights, revolved leisurely through the dusk; a few empty cars of the roller coaster rattled overhead.
Amory: I love you. Rosalind: I love you- now.
Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring as the happiest time of his life. His ideas were in tune with life as he found it; he wanted no more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships through the April afternoons.
Thirty – the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair.
And Yale is November, crisp and energetic.
I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.
I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you can bear it, and just relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish.
Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. They don’t. They just want the fun of eating it all over again.
As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale – and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.
People living alone get used to loneliness.
Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains...
The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
That’s the whole burden of this novel – the loss of those illusions that give such color to the world that you don’t care whether things are true or false as long as they partake of the magical glory.