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Francis Scott Fitzgerald

The Rough Crossing

“Once on the long, covered piers, you have come into a ghostly country that is no longer Here and not yet There. Especially at night. There is a hazy yellow vault full of shouting, echoing voices. There is the rumble of trucks and the clump of trunks, the strident chatter of a crane and the first salt smell of the sea. You hurry through, even though there's time. The past, the continent, is behind you; the future is that glowing mouth in the side of the ship; this dim turbulent alley is too confusedly the present.”
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    Anton Adigamovje citiraoпре 3 године
    Tuesday afternoon Adrian and Eva paid their first visit to the smoking-room. This was not in accord with their intentions—they had 'never wanted to see a cocktail again' after leaving America—but they had forgotten the staccato loneliness of ships, and all activity centred about the bar. So they went in for just a minute.
    Lu Rivaje citiralaпре 6 година
    casually upon Adrian.
    'You're wet. Go and change.'
    'You come too.'
    'I want another champagne cocktail.'
    'You've had enough. It's time to dress for the party.'
    Unwilling she closed her paints and preceded him.
    'Stacomb's got a table for nine,' he remarked as they walked along the corridor.
    'The younger set,' she said with unnecessary bitterness. 'Oh, the younger set. And you just having the time of your life—with a child.'
    They had a long discussion in the cabin, unpleasant on her part and evasive on his, which ended when the ship gave a sudden gigantic heave, and Eva, the edge worn off her champagne, felt ill again. There was nothing to do but to have a cocktail in the cabin, and after that they decided to go to the party—she believed him now, or she didn't care.
    Adrian was ready first—he never wore fancy dress.
    'I'll go on up. Don't be long.'
    'Wait for me, please; it's rocking so.'
    He sat down on a bed, concealing his impatience.
    'You don't mind waiting, do you? I don't want to parade up there all alone.'
    peppinalamje citiraoпре 6 година
    About Fitzgerald:
    Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940) was an American Jazz Age author of novels and short stories. He is regarded as one of the greatest twentieth century writers. Fitzgerald was of the self-styled "Lost Generation," Americans born in the 1890s who came of age during World War I. He finished four novels, left a fifth unfinished, and wrote dozens of short stories that treat themes of youth, despair, and age.

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