Love Is Bitter And All There Is,

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

We Grew Up Founding Our Dreams On The Infinite Promise Of American Advertising. I Still Believe That One Can Learn To Play The Piano By Mail And That Mud Will Give You A Perfect Complexion.

Emptying The Ashtrays Was Very Expressive Of Myself. I Just Lump Everything In A Great Heap Which I Have Labeled ‘the Past,’ And Having Thus Emptied This Deep Reservoir That Was Once Myself, I Am Ready To Continue.

The Sky Lay Over The City Like A Map Showing The Strata Of Things And The Big Full Moon Toppled Over In A Furrow Like The Abandoned Wheel Of A Gun Carriage On A Sunset Field Of Battle And The Shadows Walked Like Cats And I Looked Into The White And Ghostly Interior Of Things And Thought Of You And I Looked On Their Structural Outsides And Thought Of You And Was Lonesome.

She Felt The Essence Of Herself Pulled Finer And Smaller Like Those Streams Of Spun Glass That Pull And Stretch Till There Remains But A Glimmering Illusion. Neither Falling Nor Breaking, The Stream Spins Finer. She Felt Herself Very Small And Ecstatic. Alabama Was In Love.