"His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the
dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the
butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he
became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned
to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he
could only remember when it had been effortless.” Ernest Hemingway on F. Scott Fitzgerald, A Moveable Feast
