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I hope she’ll be a fool — that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.
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And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
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Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.
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That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
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The victor belongs to the spoils.
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Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
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There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.
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So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
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The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.
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I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.
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I’m not sentimental–I’m as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last–the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.
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I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
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