Toute vie, etc.

So in my case there is a price to pay. I do not any longer like the postman, nor the grocer, nor the editor, nor the cousin’s husband, and he in turn will come to dislike me, so that life will never be very pleasant again, and the sign Cave Canem is hung permanently just above my door. I will try to be a correct animal though, and if you throw me a bone with enough meat on it I may even lick your hand.

The Crack-Up, Esquire's February, March, and April 1936 issues, clic-clic.

[Francis Scott Fitzgerald est mort le 21 décembre 1940. Écoute, petite Elia, rapproche ta chaise du bord du précipice et je te raconterai une histoire.]