“As the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment, man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder”… F. Scott Fitzgerald
My muse Alexia Starchild this summer at the last home of F. Scott Fitzgerald in West Hollywood published today in Purple Diary, Paris. Merci Alexia, Scott et Olivier.
