The Beautiful & Damned (Musaicum Must Classics). F. Scott Fitzgerald

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      Then the illusion snapped like a nest of threads; the room grouped itself around him, voices, faces, movement; the garish shimmer of the lights overhead became real, became portentous; breath began, the slow respiration that she and he took in time with this docile hundred, the rise and fall of bosoms, the eternal meaningless play and interplay and tossing and reiterating of word and phrase — all these wrenched his senses open to the suffocating pressure of life — and then her voice came at him, cool as the suspended dream he had left behind.

      “I belong here,” she murmured, “I’m like these people.”

      For an instant this seemed a sardonic and unnecessary paradox hurled at him across the impassable distances she created about herself. Her entrancement had increased — her eyes rested upon a Semitic violinist who swayed his shoulders to the rhythm of the year’s mellowest fox-trot:

      “Something — goes

       Ring-a-ting-a-ling-a-ling

       Right in-your ear—”

      Again she spoke, from the centre of this pervasive illusion of her own.. It amazed him. It was like blasphemy from the mouth of a child.

      “I’m like they are — like Japanese lanterns and crape paper, and the music of that orchestra.”

      “You’re a young idiot!” he insisted wildly. She shook her blond head.

      “No, I’m not. I am like them…. You ought to see…. You don’t know me.” She hesitated and her eyes came back to him, rested abruptly on his, as though surprised at the last to see him there. “I’ve got a streak of what you’d call cheapness. I don’t know where I get it but it’s — oh, things like this and bright colors and gaudy vulgarity. I seem to belong here. These people could appreciate me and take me for granted, and these men would fall in love with me and admire me, whereas the clever men I meet would just analyze me and tell me I’m this because of this or that because of that.”

      — Anthony for the moment wanted fiercely to paint her, to set her down now, as she was, as, as with each relentless second she could never be again.

      “What were you thinking?” she asked.

      “Just that I’m not a realist,” he said, and then: “No, only the romanticist preserves the things worth preserving.”

      Out of the deep sophistication of Anthony an understanding formed, nothing atavistic or obscure, indeed scarcely physical at all, an understanding remembered from the romancings of many generations of minds that as she talked and caught his eyes and turned her lovely head, she moved him as he had never been moved before. The sheath that held her soul had assumed significance — that was all. She was a sun, radiant, growing, gathering light and storing it — then after an eternity pouring it forth in a glance, the fragment of a sentence, to that part of him that cherished all beauty and all illusion.

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