For a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neith… - F. Scott Fitzgerald

I like France, where everybody thinks he's Napoleon — down here everybody thinks he's Christ.

They were stars on this stage, each playing to an audience of two: the passion of their pretense created the actuality. Here, finally, was the quintessence of self-expression — yet it was probable that for the most part their love expressed Gloria rather than Anthony. He felt often like a scarecly tolerated guest at a party she was giving.

The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches with pale blue, and, weaving over the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon, swept a song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, infinitely transient, infinitely regretful.