Those things waited for us outside the gates, so whoever wanted to go home? Certainly ugliness didn't, and neither did morning or hangovers or hungers that could not be sated. “Death doesn't come to Gatsby's,” went the rumor, and it might even have been true. And a glimmer of something else too, something sharp and treacherous beneath the smooth surface: shards from a mirror that tipped off a shelf and shattered and rivulets of molten blood and faint scratches from a single nail painted slick black. Still today, when I think back on the experience of reading it, I see freshly pressed silk slipping over skin and fingers sliding through hair and delicate cords of bright pearls shimmering on bare throats like sunrise on water. Oh, this book built such beautiful, ruinous, indelible images in my mind.
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