You are unsentimental, almost incapable of affection, astute without being cunning and vain without being proud.
You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumors, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.
Wir sollten lernen, einem Mann unsere Freundschaft zu zeigen, solange er lebt, und nicht erst, wenn er tot ist.
Most of all she wanted him to know how she loved him, now that the fact was upsetting everything, now that she was walking over the battlefield in a thrilling dream.
Personality is a physical matter almost entirely; it lowers the people it acts on – I’ve seen it vanish in a long sickness. But while a personality is active, it overrides ‘the next thing.’ Now a personage, on the other hand, gathers. He is never thought of apart from what he’s done. He’s a bar on which a thousand things have been hung – glittering things sometimes, as ours are; but he uses those things with a cold mentality back of them.
Give me some bacon and eggs and coffee, please.” The.
I glanced back once. A wafer of a moon was shining over Gatsby’s house, making the night fine as before, and surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden. A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.
Gradually he realized that he was really walking up University Place, self-conscious about his suitcase, developing a new tendency to glare straight ahead when he passed any one.
Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.
He was born sleepless without a talent for rest or the desire for it.” – Cecelia Brady about Stahr.
It was themselves he gave back to them, blurred by the compromises of how many years.
It was the same feeling that had oppressed her at the hotel – accustomed to seeing the starkest grotesqueries of a continent heavily underlined as comedy or tragedy, untrained to the task of separating out the essential for herself, she now began to feel that French life was empty and stale.
All my beautiful lovely safe world blew itself up here with a great gust of high explosive love.
Americans were saying good-by in voices that mimicked the cadence of water running into a large old bathtub.
One of the pilots asked Mr. Smith if he liked his business, and Mr. Smith said, “Sure. Sure I like it. It’s nice being the only sound nut in a hatful of cracked ones.” – Stewardess to Cecelia Brady.
The very weather seems to have a quality of the past, faded weather like that of old photographs.
My dear boy, there’s your big mistake. This has nothing to do with will-power; that’s a crazy, useless word, anyway; you lack judgement – the judgement to decide at once when you know your imagination will play you false, given half a chance.
As an endless dream it went on; the spirit of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets.
It was good to be hard, then; all nice people were hard on themselves.
They ate sandwiches of mortadel sausage and bel paese cheese made up in the station restaurant, and drank Beaujolais.