He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone away and he could never come back any more. The gates were closed, the sun was down, and there was no beauty left but the gray beauty of steel that withstands all time. Even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of youth, of illusions, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
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