— Ralph Waldo Emerson
Neverthless, they fell in love — and on her terms. He no longer joined the twilight gathering at the De Soto Bar, and whenever they were seen together there were engaged in a long, serious dialogue, which must have gone on several weeks. Long afterward he told me that it was not about anything in particular but was composed on both sides of immature and even meaningless statements — the emotional content that gradually came to fill it grew up not out of the words but out of its enormous seriousness.
It was sort of hypnosis.
Often it was interrupted, giving way to that emasculated humour we call fun; when they were alone it was resumed again, solemn, low-keyed, and pitched so as to give each other a sense of unity in feeling and thought. They came to resent any interruptions of it, to be unresponsive to facetiousness about life, even to mild cynicism of their contemporaries. They were only happy when the dialogue was going on, and its seriousness bathed them like the amber glow of an open fire. Toward the end there came an interruption they did not resent —
It began to be interrupted by passion.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Rich Boy”
— Audre Lorde