This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald [best novels for teenagers TXT] 📗

the patterns they covered the ground with
Tapestries, mystical, faint in the breathless air.

That was the day⁠ ⁠… and the night for another story,
Pale as a dream and shadowed with pencilled trees⁠—
Ghosts of the stars came by who had sought for glory,
Whispered to us of peace in the plaintive breeze,
Whispered of old dead faiths that the day had shattered,
Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon;
That was the urge that we knew and the language that mattered
That was the debt that we paid to the usurer June.

Here, deepest of dreams, by the waters that bring not
Anything back of the past that we need not know,
What if the light is but sun and the little streams sing not,
We are together, it seems⁠ ⁠… I have loved you so⁠ ⁠…
What did the last night hold, with the summer over,
Drawing us back to the home in the changing glade?
What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover?
God!⁠ ⁠… till you stirred in your sleep⁠ ⁠… and were wild afraid⁠ ⁠…

Well⁠ ⁠… we have passed⁠ ⁠… we are chronicle now to the eerie.
Curious metal from meteors that failed in the sky;
Earthborn the tireless is stretched by the water, quite weary,
Close to this ununderstandable changeling that’s I⁠ ⁠…
Fear is an echo we traced to Security’s daughter;
Now we are faces and voices⁠ ⁠… and less, too soon,
Whispering half-love over the lilt of the water⁠ ⁠…
Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon.”

A Poem Amory Sent to Eleanor and Which He Called Summer Storm

“Faint winds, and a song fading and leaves falling,
Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter⁠ ⁠…
And the rain and over the fields a voice calling⁠ ⁠…

Our gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above,
Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft her
Sisters on. The shadow of a dove
Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings;
And down the valley through the crying trees
The body of the darker storm flies; brings
With its new air the breath of sunken seas
And slender tenuous thunder⁠ ⁠…
But I wait⁠ ⁠…
Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain⁠—
Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate,
Happier winds that pile her hair;
Again
They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air
Upon me, winds that I know, and storm.

There was a summer every rain was rare;
There was a season every wind was warm.⁠ ⁠…
And now you pass me in the mist⁠ ⁠… your hair
Rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more
In that wild irony, that gay despair
That made you old when we have met before;
Wraithlike you drift on out before the rain,
Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers,
With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again⁠—
Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours
(Whispers will creep into the growing dark⁠ ⁠…
Tumult will die over the trees)
Now night
Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse
Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright,
To cover with her hair the eerie green⁠ ⁠…
Love for the dusk⁠ ⁠… Love for the glistening after;
Quiet the trees to their last tops⁠ ⁠… serene⁠ ⁠…

Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter⁠ ⁠…”

IV The Supercilious Sacrifice

Atlantic City. Amory paced the board walk at day’s end, lulled by the everlasting surge of changing waves, smelling the half-mournful odor of the salt breeze. The sea, he thought, had treasured its memories deeper than the faithless land. It seemed still to whisper of Norse galleys ploughing the water world under raven-figured flags, of the British dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks of civilization steaming up through the fog of one dark July into the North Sea.

“Well⁠—Amory Blaine!”

Amory looked down into the street below. A low racing car had drawn to a stop and a familiar cheerful face protruded from the driver’s seat.

“Come on down, goopher!” cried Alec.

Amory called a greeting and descending a flight of wooden steps approached the car. He and Alec had been meeting intermittently, but the barrier of Rosalind lay always between them. He was sorry for this; he hated to lose Alec.

“Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully.”

“How d’y do?”

“Amory,” said Alec exuberantly, “if you’ll jump in we’ll take you to some secluded nook and give you a wee jolt of bourbon.”

Amory considered.

“That’s an idea.”

“Step in⁠—move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at you.”

Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped blonde.

“Hello, Doug Fairbanks,” she said flippantly. “Walking for exercise or hunting for company?”

“I was counting the waves,” replied Amory gravely. “I’m going in for statistics.”

“Don’t kid me, Doug.”

When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the car among deep shadows.

“What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?” he demanded, as he produced a quart of bourbon from under the fur rug.

Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for coming to the coast.

“Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?” he asked instead.

“Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park⁠—”

“Lord, Alec! It’s hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all three dead.”

Alec shivered.

“Don’t talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough.”

Jill seemed to agree.

“Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways,” she commented. “Tell him to drink deep⁠—it’s good and scarce these days.”

“What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are⁠—”

“Why, New York, I suppose⁠—”

“I mean tonight, because if you haven’t got a room yet you’d better help me out.”

“Glad to.”

“You see, Tully and I have two rooms with bath between at the Ranier, and he’s got to go back to New York. I don’t want to have to move. Question is, will you occupy one of the rooms?”

Amory was willing, if he could get in right away.

“You’ll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name.”

Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left the car and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel.

He was in an eddy again, a deep, lethargic gulf, without desire to work or write, love or dissipate. For the first time in his life he rather longed for death to roll over his generation, obliterating