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Francis Scott Fitzgerald

Tender is the Night

    Всеволод Дальневцитуєторік
    Trouble is when you're sober you don't want to see anybody, and when you're tight nobody wants to see you.
    josuedr11цитує4 роки тому
    When people are taken out of their depths they lose their heads, no matter how charming a bluff they put up
    Сашацитує5 років тому
    With half an hour to wait for her train
    Alyona Kulaginaцитує5 років тому
    she had known of late.
    Аллацитує6 років тому
    — a man can’t live without a moral code. Mine is that I’m against the burning of witches. Whenever they burn a witch I get all hot under the collar.
    babycloudzцитуєминулого місяця
    water reached up for her, pulled her down tenderly out of the heat, seeped in her hair and ran into the corners of her body.
    babycloudzцитуєминулого місяця
    Her fine forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold.
    babycloudzцитуєминулого місяця
    who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame,
    Oksana Dreamerцитує2 місяці тому
    slight sway of attention
    Oksana Dreamerцитує2 місяці тому
    scrutiny of strange face
    Даша Созаруковацитує2 місяці тому
    with much preliminary application
    Даша Созаруковацитує2 місяці тому
    many bungalows cluster near it
    Tigranuhiцитує3 місяці тому
    She had come to hate his world with its delicate jokes and politenesses, forgetting that for many years it was the only world open to her.
    Tigranuhiцитує3 місяці тому
    Many times he had tried unsuccessfully to let go his hold on her. They had many fine times together, fine talks between the loves of the white nights, but always when he turned away from her into himself he left her holding Nothing in her hands and staring at it, calling it many names, but knowing it was only the hope that he would come back soon.
    angieцитує5 місяців тому
    No stimuli worked upon them, no voices called them from without, no fragments of their own thoughts came suddenly from the minds of others, and missing the clamor of Empire they felt that life was not continuing here.

    "Let's only stay three days, Mother," Rosemary said when they were back in their rooms. Outside a light wind blew the heat around, straining it through the trees and sending little hot gusts through the shutters.

    "How about the man you fell in love with on the beach?"

    "I don't love anybody but you, Mother, darling."

    Rosemary stopped in the lobby and spoke to Gausse père about trains. The concierge, lounging in light-brown khaki by the desk, stared at her rigidly, then suddenly remembered the manners of his métier. She took the bus and rode with a pair of obsequious waiters to the station, embarrassed by their deferential silence, wanting to urge them: "Go on, talk, enjoy yourselves. It doesn't bother me."

    The first-class compartment was stifling; the vivid advertising cards of the railroad companies—The Pont du Gard at Arles, the Amphitheatre at Orange, winter sports at Chamonix—were fresher than the long motionless sea outside. Unlike American trains that were absorbed in an intense destiny of their own, and scornful of people on another world less swift and breathless, this train was part of the country through which it passed. Its breath stirred the dust from the palm leaves, the cinders mingled with the dry dung in the gardens. Rosemary was sure she could lean from the window and pull flowers with her hand.

    A dozen cabbies slept in their hacks outside the Cannes station. Over on the promenade the Casino, the smart shops, and the great hotels turned blank iron masks to the summer sea. It was unbelievable that there could ever have b
    Alexandra Skitiovaцитує6 місяців тому
    Already with thee! tender is the night. . .

    . . . But here there is no light,

    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

    —Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats
    CaesarCesarцитує6 місяців тому
    Her fine forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold
    angieцитує7 місяців тому
    They wanted high excitement, not from the necessity of stimulating jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations.
    Dredd Sterцитує8 місяців тому
    As he entered the hotel the halls had seemed unnaturally bright; when he left he realized that it was because it had already turned dark outside. It was a windy four-o'clock night with the leaves on the Champs Élysées singing and failing, thin and wild. Dick turned down the Rue de Rivoli, walking two squares under the arcades to his bank where there was mail. Then he took a taxi and started up the Champs Élysées through the first patter of rain, sitting alone with his love.
    Dredd Sterцитує8 місяців тому
    his shirt-sleeve fitting his wrist and his coat sleeve encasing his shirt-sleeve like a sleeve valve, his collar molded plastically to his neck, his red hair cut exactly, his hand holding his small briefcase like a dandy—just as another man once found it necessary to stand in front of a church in Ferrara, in sackcloth and ashes. Dick was paying some tribute to things unforgotten, unshriven, unexpurgated.
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