I was haunted always by my other life-my drab room in the Bronx, my square foot of the subway, my fixation upon the day’s letter from Alabama-would it come and what would it say?-my shabby suits, my poverty, and love. While my friends were launching decently into life I had muscled my inadequate bark into midstream … I was a failure-mediocre at advertising work and unable to get started as a writer. Hating the city, I got roaring, weeping drunk on my last penny and went home. — F Scott Fitzgerald
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