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Love is all right, as things go, but lovers can be a terrible waste of a girl's time.

Anna Godbersen

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Anna Godbersen
Age: 44
Born: 1980
Born: April 10
Writer
Berkeley
California
Right
Things
Time
Love
Lovers
Waste
Terrible
Girl

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Henry closed his eyes and imagined the sweet petulant woundedness with which she had stared at him on the beach. He felt a little proud that she could love him.
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In New York there is always something to look at, but it is all infinitely more interesting through a window in the backseat of a limousine.
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Diana knew it wouldn't be right, but then she told herself that things only looked wrong when there was someone to see you.
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It is a truth universally acknowledge that there will always be a gentleman to dance with, except at just the moment when you require one most.
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Good night.' Diana summoned all the dignity that she could manage in her bedraggled state and began to move back up the beach. Her dress was soaked and her stockings dotted with sand and her heart couldn't possibly withstand any more.
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That was how the heroine of a book would play it and Diana was still writing her own story the best heroines she'd always believed took their fate into their own hands.
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But in that moment she realized how false most smiles were and what a tremendous waste of time.
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She was full of some strange energy that morning. Her every movement had purpose and life and she seemed to find satisfaction in every little thing.
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All really interesting girls invent themselves.
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She considered herself unconventional.
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She found herself longing for home-not just for the hotel but for New York and all the real novels that she could lose herself in there.
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Instead, he sat in the parlor of his family's Fifth Avenue mansion, growing older by the minute just like everybody else.
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They were a society whose chief vocations were to entertain and be entertained.
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She had had no idea what it would do to her seeing him in a suit.
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We see our sins reflected everywhere: in the pallor of our intimates’ faces, in the scratching of tree branches against windows, in the strange movements of everyday objects. These may be messages from God or tricks of the eye, but in neither case are we permitted to ignore them.
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So this was betrayal. It was like being left alone in the desert at dusk without water or warmth. It left your mouth dry and will broken. It sapped your tears and made you hollow.
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The living are made of nothing but flaws. The dead, with each passing day in the afterlife, become more and more impeccable to those who remain earthbound.
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That is what I want to tell you about: the girls with their short skirts and bright eyes and big-city dreams. The girls of 1929.
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There was plenty of life left and if he had to he would use it all to get her back. The time had passed for making promises to her-all that was left for him was to act.
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THE LUXE IS . . . Pretty girls in pretty dresses, partying until dawn. Irresistible boys with mischievous smiles and dangerous intentions. White lies, dark secrets, and scandalous hookups. This is Manhattan in 1899.
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