Honestly, I don't understand why people get so worked up about a little murder!
The justice I have received, I shall give back.
That's exactly where you're wrong! Any kind of person can murder. Purely circumstances and not a thing to do with temperament! People get so far -- and it takes just the least little thing to push the...
Robert Walker as Bruno was excellent. He had elegance and humor, and the proper fondness for his mother.
For here it was now, as clear as it had ever been. And, worst of all, he was aware of an impulse to tell Bruno everything, the stranger on the train who would listen, commiserate, and forget. The idea...
I won't ever set the world on fire as a painter,' Dickie said, 'but I get a great deal of pleasure out of it.
Carol looked at her. How do you become a poet?By feeling things - too much, I suppose, Therese answered conscientiously.
And everything was made of paper: sentences, pardons, pleas, bad records, demerits, proof of guilt, but never, it seemed, proof of innocence. If there were no paper, Carter felt, the entire judicial s...
Why should Dickie want to come back to subways and taxis and starched collars and a nine-to- five job? Or even a chauffeured car and vacations in Florida and Maine? It wasn't as much fun as sailing a...
What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them.
A kiss, for instance, is not to be minimized, or its value judged by anyone else. I wonder do these men grade their pleasure in terms of whether their actions produce a child or not, and do they consi...
Perhaps it was freedom itself that choked her.
If you wanted to be cheerful, or melancholic, or wistful , or thoughtful, or courteous, you simply had to act those things with every gesture.
I know what they'd like, they'd like a blank they could fill in. A person already filled in disturbs them terribly.
He seems to be making you that way too - enough to tolerate people like him. And once you start tolerating them, you're going to end up being like them yourself.
January. It was all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January was moments, and January was a year. January rained the moments down, and froze...
It would be Carol, in a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they would go together, in heaven and in hell.
It was easy, after all, simply to open the door and escape. It was easy, she thought, because she was not really escaping at all.
I think of a sun like Beethoven, a wind like Debussy, and birdcalls like Stravinsky. But the tempo is all mine.
Forever, Tom thought. Maybe he’d never go back to the States. It was not so much Europe itself as the evenings he had spent alone, here and in Rome, that made him feel that way. Evenings by himself si...