Part II, Chapter VIII, Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, published 1934."Give me a chance now."
The voice fell low, sank into her breast and stretched the tight bodice over her heart as she came up close. He felt the young lips, her body sighing in relief against the arm growing stronger to hold her. There were now no more plans than if Dick had arbitrarily made some indissoluble mixture, with atoms joined and inseperable; you could throw it all out but never again could they fit back into atomic scale. As he held and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existance at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes.
"My God," he gasped, "you're fun to kiss."
Once again I successfully pull off the one-handed typing trick. I have to hold to book open with the other, you see, and it's so easy to make crazy mistakes when you're typing with just a couple of fingers.
This book is a great one for romance. I love Fitzgerald's little pink, soft, glittering romantic moments like this and the one I posted under the title of The Essence of a Continent. There is something wonderfully strange but perfect about Fitzgerald that I'm sure you have heard me mention before. He writes so that we can tell he knows and he's been there, done that, heard, seen, tasted, smelt, felt whatever, becaues he puts it in a terrifically authentic and beautifully wise way.
As he held and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existance at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes.
You couldn't write a line like that unless you knew. And because he knows, and because he can tell us gently and secretly about this glorious and sacred second of love, I feel very much in love with Fitzgerald in turn.