The Beautiful and Damned - F. Scott Fitzgerald (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

most brilliant, the most original⁠—smart, quiet and among the saved.

This is the man whom Anthony considers his best friend. This is the only man of all his acquaintance whom he admires and, to a bigger extent than he likes to admit to himself, envies.

They are glad to see each other now⁠—their eyes are full of kindness as each feels the full effect of novelty after a short separation. They are drawing a relaxation from each other’s presence, a new serenity; Maury Noble behind that fine and absurdly catlike face is all but purring. And Anthony, nervous as a will-o’-the-wisp, restless⁠—he is at rest now.

They are engaged in one of those easy short-speech conversations that only men under thirty or men under great stress indulge in.

Anthony Seven o’clock. Where’s the Caramel? Impatiently. I wish he’d finish that interminable novel. I’ve spent more time hungry⁠— Maury He’s got a new name for it. “The Demon Lover”⁠—not bad, eh? Anthony Interested. “The Demon Lover”? Oh “woman wailing”⁠—No⁠—not a bit bad! Not bad at all⁠—d’you think? Maury Rather good. What time did you say? Anthony Seven. Maury His eyes narrowing⁠—not unpleasantly, but to express a faint disapproval. Drove me crazy the other day. Anthony How? Maury That habit of taking notes. Anthony Me, too. Seems I’d said something night before that he considered material but he’d forgotten it⁠—so he had at me. He’d say “Can’t you try to concentrate?” And I’d say “You bore me to tears. How do I remember?” Maury laughs noiselessly, by a sort of bland and appreciative widening of his features. Maury Dick doesn’t necessarily see more than anyone else. He merely can put down a larger proportion of what he sees. Anthony That rather impressive talent⁠— Maury Oh, yes. Impressive! Anthony And energy⁠—ambitious, well-directed energy. He’s so entertaining⁠—he’s so tremendously stimulating and exciting. Often there’s something breathless in being with him. Maury Oh, yes. Silence, and then: Anthony With his thin, somewhat uncertain face at its most convinced. But not indomitable energy. Some day, bit by bit, it’ll blow away, and his rather impressive talent with it, and leave only a wisp of a man, fretful and egotistic and garrulous. Maury With laughter. Here we sit vowing to each other that little Dick sees less deeply into things than we do. And I’ll bet he feels a measure of superiority on his side⁠—creative mind over merely critical mind and all that. Anthony Oh, yes. But he’s wrong. He’s inclined to fall for a million silly enthusiasms. If it wasn’t that he’s absorbed in realism and therefore has to adopt the garments of the cynic he’d be⁠—he’d be credulous as a college religious leader. He’s an idealist. Oh, yes. He thinks he’s not, because he’s rejected Christianity. Remember him in college? Just swallow every writer whole, one after another, ideas, technic, and characters, Chesterton, Shaw, Wells, each one as easily as the last. Maury Still considering his own last observation. I remember. Anthony It’s true. Natural born fetish-worshipper. Take art⁠— Maury Let’s order. He’ll be⁠— Anthony Sure. Let’s order. I told him⁠— Maury Here he comes. Look⁠—he’s going to bump that waiter. He lifts his finger as a signal⁠—lifts it as though it were a soft and friendly claw. Here y’are, Caramel. A New Voice Fiercely. Hello, Maury. Hello, Anthony Comstock Patch. How is old Adam’s grandson? Débutantes still after you, eh?

In person Richard Caramel is short and fair⁠—he is to be bald at thirty-five. He has yellowish eyes⁠—one of them startlingly clear, the other opaque as a muddy pool⁠—and a bulging brow like a funny-paper baby. He bulges in other places⁠—his paunch bulges, prophetically, his words have an air of bulging from his mouth, even his dinner coat pockets bulge, as though from contamination, with a dog-eared collection of timetables, programmes, and miscellaneous scraps⁠—on these he takes his notes with great screwings up of his unmatched yellow eyes and motions of silence with his disengaged left hand.

When he reaches the table he shakes hands with Anthony and Maury. He is one of those men who invariably shake hands, even with people whom they have seen an hour before.

Anthony Hello, Caramel. Glad you’re here. We needed a comic relief. Maury You’re late. Been racing the postman down the block? We’ve been clawing over your character. Dick Fixing Anthony eagerly with the bright eye. What’d you say? Tell me and I’ll write it down. Cut three thousand words out of Part One this afternoon. Maury Noble aesthete. And I poured alcohol into my stomach. Dick I don’t doubt it. I bet you two have been sitting here for an hour talking about liquor. Anthony We never pass out, my beardless boy. Maury We never go home with ladies we meet when we’re lit. Anthony All in our parties are characterized by a certain haughty distinction. Dick The particularly silly sort who boast about being “tanks”! Trouble is you’re both in the eighteenth century. School of the Old English Squire. Drink quietly until you roll under the table. Never have a good time. Oh, no, that isn’t done at all. Anthony This from Chapter Six, I’ll bet. Dick Going to the theatre? Maury Yes. We intend to spend the evening doing some deep thinking over of life’s problems. The thing is tersely called The Woman. I presume that she will “pay.” Anthony My God! Is that what it is? Let’s go to the Follies again. Maury I’m tired of it. I’ve seen it three times. To Dick. The first time, we went out after Act One and found a most amazing bar. When we came back we entered the wrong theatre. Anthony Had a protracted dispute with a scared young couple we thought were in our seats. Dick As though talking to himself. I think⁠—that when I’ve done another novel and a play, and maybe a book of short stories, I’ll do a musical comedy. Maury I know⁠—with intellectual lyrics that no one will listen to. And all the critics will groan and grunt about “Dear old Pinafore.” And I shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless