The Great Gatsby

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

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.

The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.

No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.