A never-before-published F. Scott Fitzgerald story in this week’s New Yorker. Short and potent. I very much enjoyed it, particularly this paragraph:
Smoking meant a lot to her sometimes. She worked very hard and it had some ability to rest and relax her psychologically. She was a widow and she had no close relatives to write to in the evenings, and more than one moving picture a week hurt her eyes, so smoking had come to be an important punctuation mark in the long sentence of a day on the road.
