He was a cynic and like most cynics, totally selfish and self-indulgent.

Wil had always been a hopeless romantic, with “hopeless” being the operative word.

It was a hopeless thing, he thought, this obsession of his to present the people of the Earth as good and reasonable. For in many ways they were neither good nor reasonable; perhaps because they had not as yet entirely grown up. They were smart and quick and at times compassionate and even understanding, but they failed lamentably in many other ways.

He loved a lifeless thing and he was utterly and hopelessly wretched.

He possessed the logic of all good intentions and a knowledge of all the tricks of his trade, and yet he never succeeded at anything, because he believed too much in the impossible. Surprising? Why so? He was forever in the act of conceiving it!

his temper was so impetuous, his indolence so invincible, and his vicious habits so deeply rooted, that he made no progress.

He has personality problems beyond the dreams of analysts.

He felt old and miserable, going through life trying to peddle a personality of which people would not even accept a free sample.

Actually he was a pessimist, and, like all pessimists, a ridiculously unobservant man.

Like many popular best-sellers, he was a very sad and solemn man who took himself too seriously and his art not seriously enough.

He was a decent enough guy, but he was always at his worst when he was trying to be sincere.

For all his youth, he seemed to be willing himself to the edge of an adult despair.

This tendency to become deeply attached to unlikely people would remain one of [Yates's] most poignant and self-destructive qualities.