It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.
In any case you mustn't confuse a single failure with a final defeat.
If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.
I suppose books mean more than people to me anyway
I learned a little of beauty-- enough to know that it had nothing to do with truth...
I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there'll always be the person I am to-night.
Everybody's youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.''How pleasant then to be insane!
But you can love more than just one person, can't you?
No," interrupted Marcia emphatically. "And you're a sweet boy. Come here and kiss me."Horace stopped quickly in front of her."Why do you want me to kiss you?" he asked intently. "Do you just go round...
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.
An artist is someone who can hold two opposing viewpoints and still remain fully functional.
You'll find another.' God! Banish the thought. Why don't you tell me that 'if the girl had been worth having she'd have waited for you'? No, sir, the girl really worth having won't wait for anybody.
What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? cried Daisy, and the day after that, and the next thirty years?
Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know--because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot, and when I got it it turned to dust in my hand.
They were still in the happier stage of love. They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, so that the communion of self with self seemed to be on a plane where no other h...
She wanted to exist only as a conscious flower, prolonging and preserving herself
It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life.
He snatched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his burred eyes and h...
The history of my life is the history of the struggle between an overwhelming urge to write and a combination of circumstances bent on keeping me from it.
His was a great sin who first invented consciousness. Let us lose it for a few hours.