F. Scott Fitzgerald
Can we ever escape - do we even really wish to escape - our own green lights flashing across the bay of memory, across the sound of time?
No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.
The too obstrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a short cut from nothing to nothing.
They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity.
The rhythm of the year, summing up and sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes.
It took me - at least - half my life to pick up and read such a slim volume, but now I find myself entranced by the clarity, craftsmanship and compassion permeating The Great Gatsby.