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In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him. Irony was the final polish of the shoe, the ultimate dab of the clothes-brush, a sort of intellectual «There!» yet at the brink of this story he has as yet gone no further than the conscious stage. As you first see him he wonders frequently whether he is not without honor and slightly mad, a shameful and obscene thinness glistening on the surface of the world like oil on a clean pond, these occasions being varied, of course, with those in which he thinks himself rather an exceptional young man, thoroughly sophisticated, well adjusted to his environment, and somewhat more significant than any one else he knows. ↗
#beautiful-and-the-damned #fitzgerald #irony #shallow #superficial
I think I've explained earlier on in the year that I kind of underestimated how important experience was in this series, especially when you're up against such good quality drivers. ↗
I dialed the number slowly, wanting to get it right. Two rings, and he picked up. "Yes," I said after his hello. "Mclean?" he asked. "Is that you?" "Yeah," I said, swallowing and looking out my open door, at the ocean. "The answer's yes." "The answer . . ." he said slowly. "You asked me to go out with you. I know you probably changed your mind. But you should know, the answer was yes. It's always been yes when it comes to you." He was very quiet for a moment. "Where are you?" I started crying again, my voice ragged. He told me to calm down. He told me it was going to be all right. And then, he told he'd be there soon. ↗
That's the thing I'm learning about being thrown out on yer own. Nobody does nothing for you. If you don't change it, it don't get changed. ↗
She was smart and terribly determined, this girl-her will was pure steel, through and through-but she was as human as anyone else. She was lonely, too. Lonely in a way that perhaps only single girls fresh from small Midwestern towns know. Homesickness is not always a vague, nostalgic, almost beautiful emotion, although that is somehow the way we always seem to picture it in our mind. It can be a terribly keen blade, not just a sickness in metaphor but in fact as well. It can change the way one looks at the world; the faces one sees in the street look not just indifferent but ugly....perhaps even malignant. Homesickness is a real sickness- the ache of the uprooted plant. ↗
