In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.
I like large parties. Theyre so intimate. At small parties there isnt any privacy.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.
I almost married a pair of them and I cant seem to repeat the success.
It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking friends.
People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then, of course, they changed their minds.
I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
You cant repeat the past.
Id like to be able to write about myself, but I would rather not.
And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
I was privy to the secrets of the wealthy, yet distant like a shadow.
In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
What a grotesque thing a rose is.
The loneliest moment in someones life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart.
I was merely a spectator tasting the sweetness and bitterness of human desires.
The truth was untranslatable into words.
I unknowingly bore witness to the facade of the American Dream.
Every summer, I found myself wrapped up in my thoughts by the bay.
There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.
One of my organizing principles has been that you cant erase history.
I found myself appreciating the beauty of things that were simple.
To impress her, I became the narrator of untold stories.
There was something glamorous about failure.
The best thing a person can do is misunderstand me.
Nothing is as tragic as losing ambition too soon.
Silence was the loudest form of communication among us.
What we think we want and what we truly desire often clashes.
We are all fragile, marionettes dancing to the strings of fate.
Dreams are but delicate threads waiting to be woven into reality.
He was a man with a longing trapped in a world of hedonism.
The past often swirled around us like a fog we could never shake off.
Hope lingered in the moonlight, a silent promise.
Sometimes those in love are also hopelessly trapped.
He saw the world through rose-colored glasses, unaware of the shards beneath.
We often wear masks to shield our vulnerabilities.
The rhythm of laughter hid deeper fears of loss.
In the end, we all just want to belong.
He was more than a neighbor; he was a mirror reflecting our dreams.
Love is both an anchor and a sail, pulling us in every direction.
We are defined not just by our actions but by our solitude.
The facade he wore was as fragile as the dreams he chased.
All around me, hopes ignited like fireflies, only to flicker out.
To understand him is to unlock a treasure chest of unspoken fears.
In the end, every story has a narrator; I chose to be mine.