Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my … - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something-an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.

I guess I'm the Black Death,' he said slowly. 'I don't seem to bring people happiness any more.

I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.