" — I'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires — — "You are not!" She brought one little fist down onto… - F. Scott Fitzgerald

I'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires.

You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in this world, your imagination.

"Who is he anyhow, an actor?"
"No."
"A dentist?"
"...No, he's a gambler." Gatsby hesitated, then added cooly: "He's the man who fixed the World Series back in 1919."
"Fixed the World Series?" I repeated.
The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as something that merely happened, the end of an inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people — with the singlemindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.
"How did he happen to do that?" I asked after a minute.
"He just saw the opportunity."
"Why isn't he in jail?"
"They can't get him, old sport. He's a smart man."

Beauty and love pass, I know... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses-

She wanted what most women want, but she wanted it much more fiercely and passionately.