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.