she had treated him with interest, with encouragement, with malice, with indifference, with contempt. she had inflicted on him the innumerable little slights and indignities possible in such a case as if in revenge for having ever cared for him at all. she had beckoned him and yawned at him and beckoned him again and he had responded often with bitterness and narrowed eyes. she had brought him ecstatic happiness and intolerable agony of spirit. she had caused him untold inconvenience and not a little trouble. she had insulted him and she had ridden him over and she had played his interest in her against his interest in his work for fun. she had done everything to him except to criticize him this she had not done it seemed to him only because it might have sullied the utter indifference she manifested and sincerely felt toward him.
(F. Scott Fitzgerald, "Winter Dreams")
life's but a walking shadow; a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
and then is heard no more: it is a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
(Macbeth, V.5. 24-28.)
brighton nostalgia
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