Most of us are content to exist and breed and fight for the right to do both, and the dominant idea, the foredoomed attest to control one's destiny, is reserved for the fortunate or unfortunate few.

“You’re just the romantic age,” she continued- “fifty. Twenty-five is too worldl…”

“He's just a man names Gatsby.”

“Very well then, better a sane crook than a mad puritan.”

“Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at …”