I was having lunch with Hands a couple weeks ago and well documented and she told me that I should read Hem's "A Moveable Feast." I forgot her reasoning, though it at the time seemed fairly profound. Also, I'm easily wooed by extraordinarily beautiful women who have previously wrecked me so of course I agreed. Eh, I drifted through the first 150 or so pages today, sometimes forgetting about what I was reading or thinking terrible things with all due respect like, I can slaughter this, when I came across a chapter titled Scott Fitzgerald...and the following passage...
His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than a butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later, he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.
It was worth the book...and the 40 that followed. Fuck. Talent on talent.
