“The dream was gone. Something had been taken from him. In a sort of panic he pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried to bring up a picture of the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the moonlit veranda, and gingham on the golf-links and the dry sun and the gold color of her neck’s soft down. And her mouth damp to his kisses and her eyes plaintive with melancholy and her freshness like new fine linen in the morning. Why, these things were no longer in the world! Even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of illusion of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Winter Dreams”, 1926
Photo: R. Kennedy Stephen
