On lady novelists: As artists they’re rot, but as providers they’re oil wells; they gush. Norris said she never wrote a story unless it was fun to do. I understand Ferber whistles at her typewriter.
Their pooled emotions wouldn’t fill a teaspoon.
You can’t take it with you, and even if you did, it would probably melt.
Oh, it’s so easy to be sweet to people before you love them.
I am at just that interesting age where i cannot keep out of things. I, too, must be in the know; I, too, must quote and sigh and nod wisely.
He’s always with me, he and all his beauty and his cruelty.
He and I had an office so tiny, that an inch smaller and it would have been adultery.
I like it better in the dusk, like this. It’s sweet. Dusk is so personal, somehow.
What is life, anyway? A death sentence. The longest distance between two points.
Mrs. Whittaker’s dress was always studiously suited to its occasion; thus, her bearing had always that calm that only the correctly attired may enjoy.
I don’t ask You to make it easy for me – You can’t do that, for all that You could make a world.
Let the past die, my child, and go gaily on from its unmarked grave.
For herself, she declared that she paid no attention to her birthdays – didn’t give a hoot about them; and it is true that when you have amassed several dozen of the same sort of thing, it loses that rarity which is the excitement of collectors.
Honest, I won’t ever do it again. I’ll go straight, after this. I’ll never go to bed again, if I can only sleep now.
I’ve seen the way he dances; it looks like something you do on Saint Walpurgis Night.
They are sad books, filled with sad and skinless people. There are some who do not like such books. The world, too, is crowded with the sorrowful and the sensitive. There are many who do not like such a world.
And when it ends, only those places where you have known sorrow are kindly to you. If you revisit the scenes of your happiness, your heart must burst of its agony. And.
I wish he were dead. That’s a terrible wish. That’s a lovely wish. If he were dead, he would be mine. If he were dead, I would never think of now and the last few weeks. I would remember only the lovely times. It would be all beautiful. I wish he were dead. I wish he were dead, dead, dead.
Please don’t let me hope, dear God. Please don’t. I.
She felt a cozy solidarity with the big company of the voluntary dead.
Well, well. Isn’t it a small world? And a peach of a world, too. A true little corker.