Then she added in a sort of childish delight: 'We'll be poor, won't we? Like people in books. And I'll be an orphan and utterly free. Free and poor! What fun!' She stopped and raised her lips to him in a delighted kiss.'It's impossible to be both together,' said John grimly. 'People have found that out. And I should choose to be free as preferable of the two...

I could never be a Communist. I could never be regimented. I could never be told what to write.

A writer must find his own grain, way, bent. ...He aspires to create new and original works. His way is alone. If he succumbs to ideologies, he turns into a mouthpiece. He must hang on to his identity for dear life. In the end he must rely on his own judgment. It’s the only way to survive as a writer and an artist.

Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.

Never miss a party...good for the nerves--like celery.

I'm romantic - a sentimental person thinks things will last - a romantic person hopes against hope that they won't.

It's all life is. Just going 'round kissing people.

no girl can permanently bolster up a lame-duck visitor, because these day it's every girl for herself.

You've got an awfully kissable mouth.