He had angered Providence by resisting too many temptations. There was nothing left but heaven, where he would meet only those who, like him, had was… - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willow. May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, he wandered the campus at all hours through starlight and rain.

Often people display a curious respect for a man drunk, rather like the respect of simple races for the insane... There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions.

Her love had reached a point where now at last she was beginning to be unhappy, to be desperate.