I hope I haven’t given you the impression that I consider kissing intrinsically irrational.

They’re a rotten crowd’, I shouted across the lawn. ‘You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.

Believe me, I may be a bit blasé, but I can still get any man I want.

My hair– bob it!

Take off that darn fur coat!…Or maybe you’d like to have us open all the windows.

I’ll drink your champagne. I’ll drink every drop of it, I don’t care if it kills me.

Astenersi dal giudicare implica un’infinita speranza.

I want you to lie to me just as sweetly as you know how for the rest of my life.

She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.

My courage is faith–faith in the eternal resilience of me–that joy’ll come back, and hope and spontaneity. And I feel that till it does I’ve got to keep my lips shut and my chin high...

Even when the east excited me most, even when I was keenly aware of its superiority to the broad, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which only spared children and the...

I found something! Courage–just that; courage as a rule of life and something to cling to always.

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. It faced–or seemed to face–the whole external world for...

It’s all life is. Just going ’round kissing people.

I’d once again see that bob of blonde hair back on my pillow, that pink hot smile beaming toward me as I heroically win her heart in some kind of Count of Monte Cristo or...

A naive, excitable teenaged reader is a beautiful thing. Someone who’s never heard of Elizabeth Bennet or Jay Gatsby, until you tell him. And they all still believe in truth. That’s the fun of it.

Go on, she urged. Lie to me by the moonlight. Do a fabulous story.

Every year, when we finished Gatsby, I read the last page aloud. Also, every year, I wept… I almost looked forward to it. Crying once a year is probably necessary… it was involuntary, almost external,...

no girl can permanently bolster up a lame-duck visitor, because these day it’s every girl for herself.

If this were a fairy tale, this would be the part where the fishboy appears and Diana shoots him through the heart. Because he is a tragic hero, he’s our fucking Gatsby, and he lived...

Never miss a party…good for the nerves–like celery.

I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife.