Now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away.

I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.

A sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope.

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

The intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.

This is to tell you about a young man named Ernest Hemingway, who lives in Paris (an American), writes for the Transatlantic Review and has a brilliant future. . . . I’d look him up right away. He’s the real thing.

Tales of the Jazz Age.

“I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.”