Free Beautiful and Damned (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by F. Scott Fitzgerald

novel. I’ve spent more time hungry—
    MAURY: He’s got a new name for it. “The Demon Lover”—not bad, eh? 5
    ANTHONY: (Interested) “The Demon Lover”? Oh “woman wailing” —No—not a bit bad! Not bad at all—d’you think?
    MAURY: Rather good. What time did you say?
    ANTHONY :Seven.
    MAURY: (His eyes narrowing — not unpleasantly, but to express a faint disapproval) Drove me crazy the other day.
    ANTHONY: How?
    MAURY: That habit of taking notes.
    ANTHONY: Me, too. Seems I’d said something night before that he considered material but he’d forgotten it—so he had at me. He’d say “Can’t you try to concentrate?” And I’d say “You bore me to tears. How do I remember?”
    (MAURY laughs noiselessly, by a sort of bland and appreciative widening of his features.)
    MAURY: Dick doesn’t necessarily see more than any one else. He merely can put down a larger proportion of what he sees.
    ANTHONY: That rather impressive talent—
    MAURY: Oh, yes. Impressive!
    ANTHONY: And energy—ambitious, well-directed energy. He’s so entertaining—he’s so tremendously stimulating and exciting. Often there’s something breathless in being with him.
    MAURY: Oh, yes.
    (Silence, and then:)
    ANTHONY: (With his thin, somewhat uncertain face at its most convinced) But not indomitable energy. Some day, bit by bit, it’ll blow away, and his rather impressive talent with it, and leave only a wisp of a man, fretful and egotistic and garrulous.
    MAURY: ( With laughter) Here we sit vowing to each other that little Dick sees less deeply into things than we do. And I’ll bet he feels a measure of superiority on his side—creative mind over merely critical mind and all that.
    ANTHONY: Oh, yes. But he’s wrong. He’s inclined to fall for a million silly enthusiasms. If it wasn’t that he’s absorbed in realism and therefore has to adopt the garments of the cynic he’d be—he’d be credulous as a college religious leader. He’s an idealist. Oh, yes. He thinks he’s not, because he’s rejected Christianity. Remember him in college? Just swallow every writer whole, one after another, ideas, technic, and characters, Chesterton, Shaw, Wells, each one as easily as the last.
    MAURY: (Still considering his own last observation) I remember.
    ANTHONY: It’s true. Natural born fetich-worshipper. Take art—
    MAURY: Let’s order. He’ll be—
    ANTHONY: Sure. Let’s order. I told him—
    MAURY: Here he comes. Look—he’s going to bump that waiter. (He lifts his finger as a signal—lifts it as though it were a soft and friendly claw.) Here y’are, Caramel.
    A NEW VOICE: (Fiercely) Hello, Maury. Hello, Anthony Comstock Patch. How is old Adam’s grandson? Débutantes still after you, eh?
    In person RICHARD CARAMEL is short and fair—he is to be bald at thirty-five. He has yellowish eyes—one of them startlingly clear, the other opaque as a muddy pool—and a bulging brow like a funny-paper baby. He bulges in other places—his paunch bulges, prophetically, his words have an air of bulging from his mouth, even his dinner-coat pockets bulge, as though from contamination, with a dog-eared collection of time-tables, programmes, and miscellaneous scraps—on these he takes his notes with great screwings up of his unmatched yellow eyes and motions of silence with his disengaged left hand.
    When he reaches the table he shakes hands with ANTHONY and MAURY. He is one of those men who invariably shake hands, even with people whom they have seen an hour before.
    ANTHONY: Hello, Caramel. Glad you’re here. We needed a comic relief.
    MAURY: You’re late. Been racing the postman down the block? We’ve been clawing over your character.
    DICK: (Fixing ANTHONY eagerly with the bright eye) What’d you say? Tell me and I’ll write it down. Cut three thousand words out of Part One this afternoon.
    MAURY: Noble æsthete. And I poured alcohol into my stomach.
    DICK: I don’t doubt it. I bet you two have been sitting here for an hour