I Love F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Seriously. His writing is amazing. I love his style. His diction isn't particularly complex, but it's sophisticated, and between that and his sentence structure, and the ideas behind them, it's just beautiful. I love how he can capture a vague feeling so well - how he can put into words what so many people feel, but don't know how to verbalize. Especially when it's something that you recognize you feel, but don't really think about, and take for granted, in a way. I read this quote the other day, from Gatsby, and it's so classicly Fitzgerald, to me:

He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey...

My favorite by him is still this, from Gatsby:

I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.

I can't think of a more beautiful, elegant, concise way to express that sentiment. After reading those two quotes over and over and over again, for a good fifteen minutes yesterday, I wrote this little sketch.

Above all else, he possessed an irresistible charm that endeared him to everyone. Chatting with him was never strained, overly-polite small talk; he had an intimate way of drawing you into conversation and speaking to you as a familiar companion, and was capable of making anyone feel like the most important person in his world and all others. He listened in an engaging fashion – you could not doubt he was captivated by every word that tumbled from your lips, even if he wasn’t. He laughed at all the right moments, with that precise mixture of genuine amusement and friendly warmth that can take years to perfect if not inherent. He was a classic tease, in an innocent and easy manner that could offend no one and attract any one, and every little exchange belonged solely to you and him, filling you with that deep, secret pleasure that comes of sharing an inside joke that lies beyond the grasp of everyone else. Greeting you always with a warm, bright smile that lit up his eyes, you never could believe he wasn’t truly pleased to see you. For the three minutes you spent talking, his attention was yours only: you belonged to him, and he to you. Around him, you felt inspired and cheered; he instilled in you the reassuring notion that you were accepted – by both him and yourself. He loved easily, and was easy to love – or at least, it was easy for you to believe so.

It's not Fitzgerald, but hey, it's something. I haven't written anything I'm even relatively satisfied with, in a while. Right now, "something," is good enough.


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Listening to: Dashboard Confessional - Heaven Here