This Side of Paradise by F. Scott (Francis Scott) Fitzgerald
page 67 of 380 (17%)
page 67 of 380 (17%)
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without much conception of social competition and such phenomena of
absorbing interest. Still, he liked books, and it seemed forever since Amory had met any one who did; if only that St. Paul's crowd at the next table would not mistake _him_ for a bird, too, he would enjoy the encounter tremendously. They didn't seem to be noticing, so he let himself go, discussed books by the dozens--books he had read, read about, books he had never heard of, rattling off lists of titles with the facility of a Brentano's clerk. D'Invilliers was partially taken in and wholly delighted. In a good-natured way he had almost decided that Princeton was one part deadly Philistines and one part deadly grinds, and to find a person who could mention Keats without stammering, yet evidently washed his hands, was rather a treat. "Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked. "No. Who wrote it?" "It's a man--don't you know?" "Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's memory. "Wasn't the comic opera, 'Patience,' written about him?" "Yes, that's the fella. I've just finished a book of his, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray,' and I certainly wish you'd read it. You'd like it. You can borrow it if you want to." "Why, I'd like it a lot--thanks." "Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got a few other books." |
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