From page 149:
Just so those newspaper readers -- whom he despised and scorned -- longed to get back to the ideal time before the war, because it was so much more comfortable than taking a lesson from those who had gone through it.
From page 182:
The modern man calls this sentimentality. He has lost the love of inanimate objects. He does not even love his most sacred object, his motorcar, but is ever hoping to exchange it as soon as he can for a later model.
From page 192:
An experience fell to my lot this night of the Ball that I had never known in all my fifty years, though it is known to every flapper and student -- the intoxication of a general festivity, the mysterious merging of the personality in the mass, the mystic union of joy.
Obligatory penultimate paragraph:
I understood it all. I understood Pablo. I understood Mozart, and somewhere behind me I heard his ghastly laughter. I knew that all the hundred thousand pieces of life's game were in my pocket. A glipse of its meaning had stirred my reason and I was determined to being the game afresh. I would sample its tortures once more and shudder again at its senselessness. I would traverse not once more, but often, the hell of my inner being.