I belong to another generation/ Scott F. Fitzgerald
“Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.”
When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet.
“I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.”
“Don’t hurry, Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm.
Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.
“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.”
Love and promises don’t mix/ Anne-Gaëlle Huon
A simple black and white postcard. Above, a sheep, mountains, and the sky. On the back, a few lines in clumsy handwriting. Five words. Five warm, reassuring, luminous words. Five words like an invisible thread stretched across the ocean.
Be brave.
I’ll be back,
Pascual
My heart started pounding. He hadn’t forgotten me! I wanted to scream, to dance, to kiss Colette on the mouth. My room was filled with flowers, cherubs descended from the sky playing the lyre, a rainbow lit up my bed. I had just been bitten by a romantic fly.
