Writers aren't exactly people.... They're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.
It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.
Understand now, I'm purely a fiction writer and do not profess to be an earnest student of political science, but I believe strongly that such a law as one prohibiting liquor is foolish.
I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife.
I've always looked on criticism as a sort of envious tribute.
All I think of ever is that I love you.
It was late morning when he woke and found the telephone beside his bed in the hotel tolling frantically, and remembered that he had left word to be called at eleven. Sloane was snoring heavily, his c...
There’s a writer for you, he said. Knows everything and at the same time he knows nothing. [narrator]It was my first inkling that he was a writer. And while I like writers—because if you ask a writer...
He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths - so that he could 'come over' some afternoon to a stranger's garden.
For what it's worth: it's never too late to be whoever you want to be. I hope you live a life you're proud of, and if you find you're not, I hope you have the strength to start over again.
You've got an awfully kissable mouth.
My whole theory of writing I can sum up in one sentence. An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmasters of ever afterward.
Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.
I have lived so long within the circle of this book [Tender Is The Night] and with these characters that often it seems to me that the real world does not exist but that only these characters exist, a...
We all have souls of different ages
I wish I had done everything on earth with you
Though the Jazz Age continued it became less and less an affair of youth. The sequel was like a children's party taken over by the elders.
The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness.
So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.
Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.