Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.
When I read the actual story-how Gatsby loves Daisy so much but can’t ever be with her no matter how hard he tries-I feel like ripping the book in half and calling up Fitzgerald and telling him his book is all wrong, even though I know Fitzgerald is probably deceased. Especially when Gatsby is shot dead in his swimming pool the first time he goes for a swim all summer, Daisy doesn’t even go to his funeral, Nick and Jordan part ways, and Daisy ends up sticking with racist Tom, whose need for sex basically murders an innocent woman, you can tell Fitzgerald never took the time to look up at clouds during sunset, because there’s no silver lining at the end of that book, let me tell you.
“There was a kindliness about intoxication – there was that indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned
Their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.
My God,’ he gasped, ‘you’re fun to kiss.
The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaieties, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.
It was astonishing to think that life had once been the sum of her current love affairs. It was now the sum of her current problems.