It gets like this in Liverpool when you're on the ferry and the sun reflects off the Mersey.

Fitzgerald never got rid of anything; the ghosts of his adolescence, the failures of his youth, the doubts of his maturity plagued him to the end. He was supremely a part of the world he described, so much a part that he made himself its king and then, when he saw it begin to crumble, he crumbled with it and led it to death.

It gets like this in Liverpool when you're on the ferry and the sun reflects off the Mersey.