He snatched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his burred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.
F. Scott FitzgeraldAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: September 24, 1896
- Died: December 21, 1940
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Beloved, we are always in the wrong, Handling so clumsily our stupid lives, Suffering too little or too long, Too careful even in our selfish loves: The decorative manias we obey. Die in grimaces round us every day, Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice. Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice.
W. H. Auden