I have had to amend one brief passage, so as to render it suitable for all audiences. And also to respect my own sense of shame. See if you can guess where.
(Illustrated, fittingly, with Robert Frank's "Parade--Hoboken, New Jersey.")
"It was a dream," said John quietly. "Everybody's youth is
a dream, a form of chemical madness."
. . .
"But," inquired John curiously, "who did plan all your wonderful reception rooms
and halls, and approaches and bathrooms -- ?"
"Well," answered Percy, "I blush to tell you, but it was
a moving-picture fella. He was the only man we found who was used to
playing with an unlimited amount of money, though he did
tuck his napkin in his collar and couldn't read or write."
--F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz"
Think, for instance, of the sunny white bedroom on Bloomfield Street, the fruit crate of books next to the tousled bed (onto which he dumped a mug of tea, damaging the copy of The Americans you had searched out and bought for him as a present, then didn't give him because you decided it was too extravagant, too early). That room, that apartment, seemed to belong to you and him, even if it did not. You spent hours in that bed, you slept late in the day on weekends, then woke to go straight out to dinner. In short, you did what kids all over are doing this very moment as they fall in love, and that you now look back on with horrible unquenchable longing. That will never happen again, you think, and if you had just known you would feel this now, wouldn't you have at least remained aware of its sweet temporariness, aware of the great gift you held in your hand like a magic fountain pouring itself out over your fingers as if the water and its gorgeous coolness would last forever?