He was extremely precise when it came to the recipe for a dish, the date of a painter’s birth or death, the nomenclature of his works. Now and then, despite everything, he went so far as to utter a judgment on a work, on someone’s interpretation of life, but he would then give his remarks an ironic tone, as if he did not entirely subscribe to what he was saying.(p. 213). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.
and he knew nothing about how she spent her time during the day, any more than about her past, so much so that he lacked even that initial bit of information which, by allowing us to imagine for ourselves what we do not know , makes us want to know it.(p. 242)
Of all love’s modes of production, of all the disseminating agents of the holy evil, surely one of the most efficacious is this great breath of agitation which sometimes blows down on us. Then the die is cast, and the person whose company we enjoy at the time is the one we will love.(p. 233)
As for Tom, the fact that he ‘had some woman in New York’ was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.Fitzgerald, F. Scott (2013-08-13). The Great Gatsby (Kindle Locations 280-282). Kindle Edition.
He smiled understandingly— much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced— or seemed to face— the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on YOU with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.Fitzgerald, F. Scott (2013-08-13). The Great Gatsby (Kindle Locations 628-632). Kindle Edition.
"To whatever extent I made use of reality, actually, a very slight extent, ... the little phrase of the sonata is, and I have never told this to anyone, the charming but infinitely mediocre phrase of a sonata for piano and violin by Saint-Saëns, a musician I don't like."
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