This afternoon, Dean and I talked about many things. He was ecstatic about F. Scott Fitzgerald, the one who wrote The Great Gatsby, which Dean have read like a zillion times already. You bet he has read it again last week, that’s why he was perceptibly ecstatic this afternoon. To add to the usual charm that The Great Gatsby can spell on him, he sort of ‘discovered’ another author, a copycat of F. Scott Fitzgerald he said, but nevertheless near as good as the original. John Ohara was the name I guess?
Anyway, other than that, we also talked about really mature things— not the obscene mature stuff, you silly— but things like how-we-wished-we-would-grow-up-to-be-the-persons-we-dream, and all those sorts running along that line of thinking. Dean was real solid on stuff like that because more likely than not, he is like me: a dreamer with many demands on dreams. Sentimental fools, too if I may add.
20 something, quarter-life crisis, loss of love, name it, nothing's weird.
