We don't want to be alone

September 23: Actor Mickey Rooney was born Sept. 23, 1920. He is in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the longest career of any actor ever. He was also married eight times.

"The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married." -- Cyril Connolly.


Sept. 24: Author F. Scott Fitzgerald was born Sep. 24, 1896. He wrote:

"It is in the thirties that we want friends. In the forties we know they won't save us any more than love did."


“What could Babbitt have done that was better than he did?”

“That’s the point,” Cutterback said. “He had the resolve but not the will.”
“Maybe his better self is just a voice, telling him there’s something better. Maybe there’s not.” The girl brought more drinks.
“Gatsby thought there was something better,” Cutterback said. “The green light at the end of Daisy’s dock.”
“He wanted a fresh start, too. Maybe there’s no such thing. Like Fitzgerald said, no second acts.”
“I think I could be a better man,” Cutterback said, leering at the waitress, “with your help.” She scowled and moved off, and he burst into song.  --  Chapter 17, The Misforgotten.

No hemming and hawing about it

Ernest Hemingway was born on this day in 1899.

"Always ready to lend a helping hand to the one above him." -- F. Scott Fitzgerald on Hemingway.

He idolized Hemingway. The writer sits down each day to face eternity, or the lack of it, he intoned. Bullshit, Sully told him. The writer sits down to face a blank page. Maybe that was what was wrong with Hemingway.

"What?” Cutterback said.
“He had to make a rite out of it?”
“A write? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“A rite. A ceremony.”
“He was a great fucking writer,” Cutterback growled.
“Sure he was. Did he even say that?”
“What?”
“What you just said. About eternity.”
“Yes, he did.”
“He’s full of shit, then.”
  --  Chapter 17, The Misforgotten.

No hemming and hawing

Ernest Hemingway was born on this day in 1899.

"Always ready to lend a helping hand to the one above him."  --  F. Scott Fitzgerald on Hemingway.

   Cutterback tipped back his huge head and swallowed the rest of his Scotch. He idolized Hemingway. The writer sits down each day to face eternity, or the lack of it, he intoned. Bullshit, Sully told him. The writer sits down to face a blank page. Maybe that was what was wrong with Hemingway.

   “What?” Cutterback said.
   “He had to make a rite out of it?”
   “A write? What the fuck are you talking about?”
   “A rite. A ceremony.”
   “He was a great fucking writer,” Cutterback growled.
   “Sure he was. Did he even say that?”
   “What?”
   “What you just said. About eternity.”
   “Yes, he did.”
   “He’s full of shit, then.”
                                          --  Chapter 17, The Misforgotten.