F. Scott Fitzgerald

And lastly from that period I remember riding in a taxi one afternoon between very tall buildings under a mauve and rosy sky; I began to bawl because I had everything I wanted and knew I would never be so happy again.

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened - then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star.

one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty−one that everything afterward savors of anti−climax.

It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.