Talent doesn’t starve any more. Even art gets enough to eat these days. Artists draw your magazine covers, write your advertisements, hash out rag-time for your theatres. By the great commercializing of printing you’ve found a harmless, polite occupation for every genius who might have carved his own niche. But beware the artist who’s an intellectual also.
For another instant life was radiant and time a phantom and their strength eternal –.
He waited for the mask to drop off, but at the same time he did not question her right to wear it. She, on her part, was not impressed by his studied air of blase sophistication.
In my younger and more vulnerables years...
He asked her if she thought he was conceited. She said there was a difference between conceit and self-confidence. She adored self-confidence in men.
I’ve thought I was right about life at various times, but faith is difficult. one thing I know. If living isn’t’ a seeking for the grail it may be a damned amusing game.
The afternoon waned from the purging good of three o’clock to the golden beauty of four. Afterward he walked through the dull ache of a setting sun when even the clouds seemed bleeding...
She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can.
With the influence of a dress her personality had also undergone a change.
Don’t be morbid,’ Jordan said. ‘Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
All the babies breaking things and grabbing at the cake, and each mama going home thinking about the subtle superiority of her own child to every other child there.
The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean – then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.
Isabella was quite stirred; she wound her handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the faint light that streamed over her, dropped it deliberately on the floor. Their hands touched for an instant, but neither spoke. Silences were becoming more frequent and more delicious.
A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
So he waited, listening for a moment loner to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.
Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically.
I wish I was in print. It will be odd a year or so from now when Scottie assures her friends I was an author and finds that no book is procurable.
It was a time of youth and war, and there was never so much love around.
As for the well-known Amory, he would write immortal literature if he were sure enough about anything to risk telling anyone else about it.
Try fiction,” suggested Tom. “Trouble is I get distracted when I start to write stories – get afraid I’m doing it instead of living -.