It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.
Oh, the secret life of man and woman – dreaming how much better we would be than we are if we were somebody else or even ourselves, and feeling that our estate has been unexploited to its fullest.
There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.
Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.
Nothing could have survived our life.
Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.
Don’t you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered – and I was delivered to you – to be worn. I want you to wear me, like a watch-charm or a buttonhole bouquet.
Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.
I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.
Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.
Experience teaches you how to do things you never want to do again.
Mr. Fitzgerald-I believe that is how he spells his name-seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.
Spinach and champagne. Going back to the kitchens at the old Waldorf. Dancing on the kitchen tables, wearing the chef’s headgear. Finally, a crash and being escorted out by the house detectives.
Why should all life be work, when we all can borrow. Let’s think only of today, and not worry about tomorrow.
Youth doesn’t need friends – it only needs crowds.
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.
Being in love, she concluded, is simply a presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone.
Oh, we are going to be so happy away from all the things that almost got us but couldn’t quite because we were too smart for them!
Death is the only real elegance.
Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.