I haven't blogged in a fair while (3 months)...(my bad), so I decided to just blog about anything.
I recently re-watched one of my favourite films of all time: The Great Gatsby, and was reminded of my favourite literary passages of all time... incidentally from the book the movie was based on, "The Great Gatsby", by F. Scott Fitzgerald:
Only Gastby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction - Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament" - it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No - Gatsby turned out alright at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and shortwinded elations of men.
I get shivers down my spine just reading that.
Simply, epic :)
Meow.
