“And that is why I have sworn not to put pen to paper until my ideas either clarify or depart entirely; I have quite enough sins on my soul without putting dangerous, shallow epigrams into people’s heads…Every author ought to write every book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he finished it.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
When I see a couple of kids and guess he’s fucking her and she’s taking pills or wearing a diaphragm, I know this is paradise Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives— bonds and gestures pushed to one side like an outdated combine harvester, and everyone young going down the long slide to happiness, endlessly. I wonder if anyone looked at me, forty years back, and thought,...
friday night at the royal hotel
light spreads darkly downwards from the high clusters of lights over empty chairs that face each other, coloured differently. Through open doors, the dining-room declares a larger loneliness of knives and glass and silence laid like carpet. A porter reads an unsold evening paper. Hours pass, and all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds, leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room. In shoeless...