I know you have it in you, Guy,” Anne said suddenly at the end of a silence, “the capacity to be terribly happy.
Finally, Carol said in a tone of hopelessness, “Darling, can I ask you to forgive me?” The tone hurt Therese more than the question. “I love you, Carol.” “But do you see what it means?
I do not understand people who like to make noise; consequently I fear them, and since I fear them, I hate them.
I have a definite psychosis in being with people. I cannot bear it very long.
one blow in anger [would] kill, probably, a child from aged two to eight. Those over eight would take two blows to kill.
I read, write and create. I must lose myself in work, so that there is no space for the other/anything else.
Life is a long failure of understanding, a long, mistaken shutting of the heart.
One situation – maybe one alone – could drive me to murder: family life, togetherness.
What chance combination of shadow and sound and his own thoughts had created it?
I have been sadder than any man could be: for nothing in the world was made for me.
And she did not have to ask if this was right, no one had to tell her, because this could not have been more right or perfect.
One interesting thing is that a stage is reached when nothing hurts any more. Things cannot become any worse, finally, for the one who is really depressed.
The taste of Scotch, though Guy didn’t much care for it, was pleasant because it reminded him of Anne. She drank Scotch, when she drank. It was like her, golden, full of light, made with careful art.
My imagination functions much better when I don’t have to speak to people.
I tell him his business, all business, is legalized throat-cutting, like marriage is legalized fornication.
I like to drink when I travel. It enhances things, don’t you think?
It was the seventh or eighth floor, she couldn’t remember which. A streetcar crawled past the front of the hotel, and people on the sidewalk moved in every direction, with legs on either side of them, and it crossed her mind to jump.
He could feel the belligerence growing in Freddie Miles as surely as if his huge body were generating a heat that he could feel across the room.
Honesty, for me, is usually the worst policy imaginable.
Her life was a series of zigzags. At nineteen, she was anxious.
At any rate, Therese thought, she was happier than she ever had been before. And why worry about defining everything?
My story can move fast, as I can’t, it can have a reasonable and perhaps perfect solution, as mine can’t. A solution that is somehow satisfying, as my personal solution never can be.
What else mattered except being with Carol, anywhere, anyhow?
Once a person has become detached from his possessions, his customary duties, his moments of solitude, where is he? What is he?
And everything was made of paper: sentences, pardons, pleas, bad records, demerits, proof of guilt, but never, it seemed, proof of innocence. If there were no paper, Carter felt, the entire judicial system would collapse and disappear.
Honestly, I don’t understand why people get so worked up about a little murder!
Perhaps it was a statement after all: I don’t want to die without knowing you. Do you feel the same way, Carol? She could have said the last question, but she could not have said all that went before it.
Carol looked at her. “How do you become a poet?””By feeling things – too much, I suppose,” Therese answered conscientiously.
She thought of people she had seen holding hands in movies, and why shouldn’t she and Carol?
Do people always fall in love with things they can’t have?”Always,’ Carol said, smiling, too.
Robert Walker as Bruno was excellent. He had elegance and humor, and the proper fondness for his mother.
I only know it takes weeks to recover, as if one had been in a car accident.