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They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this, combined with a lazy indifference toward his work, exasperated every master in school.
He moved his bed so that the sun would wake him at dawn that he might dress and go out to the archaic swing that hung from an apple-tree near the sixth-form house. Seating himself in this he would pump higher and higher until he got the effect of swinging into the wide air, into a fairyland of piping satyrs and nymphs with the faces of fair-haired girls he passed in the streets of Eastchester.
The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge of twilight.
its lazy beauty, its half-grasped significance, the wild moonlight revel of the rushes, the handsome, prosperous big-game crowds, and under it all the air of struggle that pervaded his class.
Amory resented social barriers as artificial distinctions made by the strong to bolster up their weak retainers and keep out the almost strong.
scrupulously
his personality seemed rather a mental thing, and it was not in his power to turn it on and off like a water-faucet.
They curved tantalizingly,
belong distinctively in this seclusion,
It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful.
Ten o'clock found them penniless. They had suppered greatly on their last eleven cents and, singing, strolled up through the casinos and lighted arches on the boardwalk, stopping to listen approvingly to all band concerts. In
you've gotten to mean to me a dream that I can't put on paper any more.
eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely charming, infinitely new.
There was the eternal kissable mouth, small, slightly sensual, and utterly disturbing. There were gray eyes and an unimpeachable skin with two spots of vanishing color.
Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. They don't. They just want the fun of eating it all over again.
"Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man,"
There were so many places where one might deteriorate pleasantly: Port Said, Shanghai, parts of Turkestan, Constantinople, the South Seas—all lands of sad, haunting music and many odors, where lust could be a mode and expression of life, where the shades of night skies and sunsets would seem to reflect only moods of passion: the colors of lips and poppies.
mistaking the shadow of courage for the substance of wisdom.
The afternoon waned from the purging good of three o'clock to the golden beauty of four.
dusky, dreamy smell of flowers and the ghost of a new moon in the sky
the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams.
