The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.
F. Scott FitzgeraldHe had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock.
F. Scott FitzgeraldYou are mine-you know you're mine!" he cried wildly...the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened...the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.
F. Scott FitzgeraldThereโs a writer for you,โ he said. โKnows everything and at the same time he knows nothing.โ [narrator]It was my first inkling that he was a writer. And while I like writersโbecause if you ask a writer anything you usually get an answerโstill it belittled him in my eyes. Writers arenโt people exactly. Or, if theyโre any good, theyโre a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. Itโs like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward tryingโonly to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers.
F. Scott Fitzgerald