The Crack-Up by F Scott Fitzgerald

Author:F Scott Fitzgerald [Fitzgerald, F Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780811219716
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 1964-06-15T05:00:00+00:00

M

MOMENTS (WHAT PEOPLE DO)

Dogs:

We went through a routine, with a lot of false starts, charges, leg and throat holds, rolling over, and escapes.

I only barked a little in the bass to stretch my throat— I’m not one of the kind always shooting off their muzzle.

We followed a tall lady for awhile—no particular reason except she had a parcel with meat in it—we knew we wouldn’t get any, but you never can tell. Sometimes I just feel like shutting my eyes and just following somebody pretending they’re yours or that they’re taking you somewhere.

The Brain wasn’t there yet but the Beard was. He got out that damn pole and tried to kid me again, holding it out and jabbering—a long time ago I figured out that his object is to see if I’m fool enough to jump over it. But I don’t bite, just walk around it. Then he tried the trick they all do—held my paws and tried to balance me up on the end of my spine. I never could figure out the point of that one.

I wanted to lick him, but when I came really close he snarled, “Scram!”, and got half up on his haunches. He thought I was going to eat him just because he was down.

The little boy said, “Get away, you!”, and it made me feel bad because I’ve never eaten a dog in my life and would not unless I was very hungry.

I must have had a hundred bones around here and I don’t know why I save them. I never find them again unless accidentally, but I just can’t stand leaving them around.

Thinking the world was going to start over with the things they could make of cellophane. Because for a moment everyone was making things of cellophane.

The idea of the grande dame slightly tight is one of the least impressive in the world. You know: “The foreign office will hear about this, hic!”

I once financed the great grandson of the great Morgan.

It was an old pistol, for as he took it away from her a slice of pearl came off the handle and fell on the floor.

Some kind of small animal that looked all wrong, “as if it were turned inside out,” had emerged from the forest, regarded them curiously for a moment and hurried mysteriously away.

They were all hungry now, and sitting jaded beside the stream they developed individual tendencies to look around for a sign “Restaurant” or strain their ears for the tinkle of a dinner bell.

In Manila Mr. Barnaby had struck her with a whisk broom because she had ruined his life.

Nurses clucking. As if that confirmed some idea of life that they had held for long.

Dorothy Parker going Victorian, making up for the past by weeping—a sort of deliberate retrogression.

He put out a mosquito on the paper and erased its body with the rubber.

Her mouth fell open comically, she balanced a moment.

She was asleep—he stood for a moment beside her bed, sorry for her, because she was asleep, and because she had set her slippers beside her bed.

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