She smiled at him, making sure that the smile gathered up everything inside her and directed it toward him, making him a profound promise of herself for so little, for the beat of a response, the assurance of a complimentary vibration in him.
Minute by minute the sweetness drained down into her out of the willow trees, out of the dark world. She stood up too, and stumbling over the phonograph, was momentarily against him, leaning into the hollow of one round shoulder.
“I’ve got one more record,” she said. “-Have you heard ‘So Long, Letty’? I supposed you have.”
“Honesly, you don’t undertand-I haven’t heard a thing.”
Nor known, nor smelt, nor tasted, he might have added; only hot-cheeked girls in hot secret rooms. The young maidens he had known in New Haven in 1914 kissed men, saying “There!,” hands at the man’s chest to push him away. Now there was this scarcely saved waif of disaster bringing him the essence of a continent…
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
Margot’s wallpaper.
Read how Wes Anderson designed the Tenenbaum house here.
(Source: doctortaco, via wilsonsays)
Sam Taylor-Wood’s new photography exhibition: Crying Men.
Yes, that is Jude Law up there. My favorite crying man.
