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By F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope.

I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.

A reluctant elevator-boy went for a box full of straw and some mild, to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large, hard dog-biscuits -- one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon.

He smiled understandingly -- much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced -- or seemed to face -- the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.

Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.

That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pajama pocket over his heart!

So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects in a slowly developing picture.

There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind.

So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.