There are no second acts in American lives.

There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind. F.

There was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.

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.

They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.

Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair.

This is to tell you about a young man named Ernest Hemingway, who lives in Paris (an American), writes for the Transatlantic Review and has a brilliant future. . . . I’d look him up right away. He’s the real thing.