Her happiness was as fragile as the pattern that was

made by the dust on a moth’s wings. At one

time she understood it no more than the moth did

and she did not know when it was brushed or

marred. Later she became conscious of her damaged wings and

of their construction and she learned to think and could

not fly any more because the love of flight was

gone and she could only remember when it had been

effortless. Her idealized memories of happy days sustained her but

they were a lingering torment in her comfortless yearning.


Paraphrases of Ernest Hemingway’s recollections of F. Scott Fitzgerald.