she was incurably dishonest

...her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face...

I wish I was Jordan Baker. Never feeling a thing. Cold, gorgeous, getting what I want. A loss to regret. (she didn't answer. angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, i turned away). She is all yellow silk dresses and impenetrable gray eyes and tall slenderness and hardness. I wish I was as hard as her. That I knew how to lie enough to protect myself, unflinchingly.

But I'm too much like Gatsby--willing to care, still dreaming. (he had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. he did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city).

The capacity to care is the capacity to bleed.

...so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past...