After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eye’s power of correction.

Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.

Either you think, or else others have to think for you and take power from you, pervert and discipline your natural tastes, civilize and sterilize you.

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

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

I think the market correction is a slow bleed. It's being nickel-and-dimed to death.